I'm not lonely, Sherlock
by Yandere Kirkland chan
Summary: After the events of TFP The final problem, neither of the Holmes brothers are coping very well. But Sherlock has reason to believe that his brother is struggling even more than himself. A Mycroft centred fan fiction about how he deals with everything. Contains depression, suicide attempts, drug abuse and body issues. Sherlock and Mycroft fluff. Mystrade in later chapters.
1. Paperwork blues

Mycroft Holmes sat in his desk chair which, like the rest of the room, was worth hundreds of pounds. He wasn't a man who particularly enjoyed standing out, however, in his position in the world, with the job he held, to not have every pointless item in his possession dripping with money would be to stand out rather than blend in.

The London evening was grey and grim, the only light seeping through his half closed curtains was the artificial glow of street lamps. If Mycroft had been a poetic man he might have made some comparison between his own feelings and the sight leaking through his window. The dull and miserable grey of the weather, one might say, perfectly captured the dullness that his life had reached, thick, dark clouds blocking every inch of the natural, warming light that may theoretically be there. Instead the light was replaced with a very obviously fake, sickeningly bright light that was quite blatantly for show yet so ordinary that no one gave it a second thought.

But no state of the weather would change the fact that Mycroft was not a poet and if one would say any of that to him it was highly unlikely he would draw any parallels between it and his own life. Besides, that particular metaphor implied that Mycroft had some deeper feelings than a strive to maintain the greater good of the United Kingdom, and that was preposterous.

Mycroft sat hunched over his desk, piles of paperwork scattered precariously over the desk. His hand flew over the paper, struggling to keep up with his remarkable mind. He maintained some ludicrous discipline, refusing to relent and give in to the pain that was throbbing in his arm. Pain? What pain? It must be some delusion because at that moment he wasn't a man he was a machine, a computer. Computers didn't care if work was boring, machines didn't care if they were 'tired' they didn't get tired, they either had enough fuel to work or didn't. And Mycroft definitely had enough fuel, he'd eaten a disgusting amount in a feast with Lady Smallwood earlier that day. But that was good, it meant he didn't have to distract himself with any petty human inconveniences for a while longer.

Sometimes it was so hard not smoking. Of course, he didn't exercise any restraints on the subject, no delusions of trying to cut down. It's just that Mycroft New that if he indulged in a cigarette any sooner than the moment he couldn't bare not having one any longer then he would soon find himself longing for something more. And unlike his younger brother, Mycroft Holmes found the idea of drugs repulsive. Maybe it was a side effect of witnessing Sherlock's experiences with them, seeing the grave affects it had on his normally beautiful body and amazing mind. And feeling first hand the sheer terror that came with finding his own baby brother slumped over on a pest ridden mattress in some drug den unconscious, fighting for his life against an invisible, self inflicted monster that made an action as simple as breathing an epic task.

Yes, maybe it was watching what drugs did to someone close to him or maybe it was the dislike of not being able to be in control of one's own mind and body, but Mycroft disliked the thought of drugs immensely and exercised precautions against having any impulses on the matter. Besides, there were other better ways to escape one's own mind than burying yourself within it.

And so, here he was, losing himself in an automatic flow of such a simple, boring, tedious task as paper work. Challenging himself to distance himself from his emotions and treat the task as if he were a machine, what an easy life he would lead if that fact were true. He willed himself to go faster. He had to go faster, faster, faster. His mind was going so fast and his hand couldn't keep up, his pen threatened to break.

He was so alone always and all he had to do was keep the government up and running. But after a while that got boring and the tasks could be done by anyone they'd were so simple. So he retreated into his mind, teaching himself new skills that he might find he needed at some point. But even that ran out, he didn't want to polite his brain with facts he didn't need. And now he'd decided to train his body too.

What has the point in knowing 217 different ways to take a gun from someone's shirt pocket when exercise had you out of breath and vulnerable? Mycroft was the British government. He couldn't afford to be vulnerable. His mind was so vast yet his body restrained him, his mind was like a train with no breaks, trapped in thick concrete walls that was his body, battering itself and it's surroundings to ruins.

And yet he praised it. He thanked all the powers that may be to give him such a big fault for him to work on because it gave him something to do. Everything was so boring he could barely stand it. And especially right now. Right now he was completely isolated, he didn't dare think about it and he didn't dare let himself think about why. Because it was his own fault. He wasn't as smart as Eurus and he wasn't as understanding as Sherlock. So there was no point in trying to be. Because he had tried, he used to try in vain to balance the knowledge and skill it took to manage a country with the needs of people, his own family favouritised though he would not admit it. Because after all, as despised a government may he and as heartless it can seem to individuals with their own lives to think about, a government was a charity that put all of its efforts into helping as many people as was possible.

There were laws and guide lines, all he had to do was follow them. And that's where he'd gone wrong. Because he'd started to do things freestyle, tried to understand what would help people the most. He did many things because he considered it a 'kindness' because sometimes laws seemed so cold. And yet, not everyone seemed to agree that his 'kindnesses' were kind. His mum and dad being o- No. He gripped his pen tighter. Computers didn't contemplate their past. So why should he? Besides, he'd learnt from his mistake: stop trying to bring people's emotions into consideration because no matter how hard he tried he would never be able to understand emotions. And that was like playing with fire with no idea how to put one out.

Yes, he was not as smart as Eurus so he should not try to be anything too outstanding or unique. And he wasn't as understanding as Sherlock so he shouldn't try to deal with people or the emotions they had. He was Mycroft. Just Mycroft and he would maintain his minor position in the British government while trying to train his body so that it would be at a compatible standard to his mind.


	2. Between guilt and a cigarette

"Sir?" Anthea's voice cut into the trance he had carefully created for himself. Mycroft blinked several times and mentally shook himself off while still maintaining the façade of being unperturbed. Mycroft dwelled for a moment over the minor cleverness of the lady, telling people her name was 'Anthea' then they come to the simple conclusion that it was an alias. Of course it'd be an alias. So when anyone tries guessing her name all they have to go on is 'it's not Anthea' But it was, in fact, most definitely 'Anthea'.

"Yes?" He asked simply, removing his arms from the table with a wince. The table edge had indented in his wrists, creating alarming looking, though harmless in actuality, purple-red imprints. "Sir, your car is here. Will you be taking it or shall I tell them to leave and come back later?" Mycroft looked out the crack in the curtain. The grey sky had become black, if the pollution of all of Europe hadn't washed up here to create thick, dark clouds, he might have been able to see the stars.

Mycroft looked at the grandfather clock that was tucked into the corner of his room and was surprised to see that it was already the early hours of morning "Yes, I think I'd better take it. Thank you, Anthea. What're you still doing here? Shouldn't you be at home?" He said, getting up and packing away his things. "You hadn't left yet, sir, I thought I'd stay in case you needed me. I am your personal assistant after all." Mycroft frowned as he felt a pang of guilt then he shook himself off. Since when did he feel guilt over such petty matters? "Thank you, Anthea. Next time feel free to leave at your normal finishing time." Anthea nodded and departed.

With a world-weary sigh, Mycroft started to make his way out of the building, his umbrella in hand. A characterless black car was waiting outside for him, one might find the sight sinister and unnerving but Mycroft was used to it. Long black limos and shiny racing cars were too glamorous and attention seeking. After all, a car was a car, an item of transport. As long as it was safe, shock absorbing, fast enough to stick to speed limits and comfortable then it was doing the job it should.

The drive was a silent one, as they always were. The driver took him to the doors of his London mansion. Mycroft was mildly impressed by all his drivers' abilities to drive him and other people silently around without so much as a single cough. Then again, they were payed well and the job was simple, it's not surprising they did as they were told. On many occasions Mycroft found himself being paranoid over his workers. They were so close to government secrets and everyone had their pressure points. Even a measly cleaner could be behind a government official mass murder. But then, this was the life Mycroft had chosen to lead, one of secrets, threats and suspicion.

They soon arrived at his house and he got out, the driver wordlessly left. The building was large in comparison to normal houses however, with the money Mycroft had, if he wished to be could buy a much larger place. But there is only so much room a single man could want to own, only so many rooms that could be put to use before there were rooms remaining empty and unused. Perhaps, if he had any partner or close family or friend then he would have invest in a larger place, however, even this house was in want of some other person to populate it. Mycroft scoffed at the thought, him having a guest? A regular guest? A housemate? The thought was ludicrous.

Now for something to do. Mycroft automatically levitated towards his kitchen, walking towards his fridge. Eating when one had nothing to do was a bad habit bf it was considerably less damaging than alcohol or drug abuse. He opened his fridge only to find it empty. Of course it was empty. He'd emptied it a while ago to discourage any food binges. It was rather out of character of him to forget, and he hadn't really forgotten, but a mixture of routine and desire had him opening his fridge door despite it all.

He had many take-away restaurants' menus and details. If he really did want to eat something then he wouldn't have to go through the trouble of re-buying everything he had disposed of. But the notion of having to call a public restaurant in such a common fashion then wait for the delivery to come, an eternity to wallow in his shame, was rather off putting therefore making his diet mildly more successful. It was a new idea and it appeared to be working so far.

Mycroft turned the menu of one of the restaurants he was more fond of over in his hands, considering calling. He looked up at the fridge and froze. There was the note, the one he had left himself to remind him that he had to call Sherinford to check up on Eurus. After all the stress and work he'd been through in regards of both his younger siblings later he hadn't even had time to get rid of it. He placed the menu down, suddenly feeling far from hungry.

Taking the note in hand he scrunched it up and chucked it into the drain. Probably not the best idea but he didn't feel in the mood for burning it. He frowned at himself, he was not often overtaken by outbursts of any emotion and yet now he felt anger, sorrow and guilt. Mycroft shook his head. How very peculiar.

It was not new to him, of course, the knowledge that his family was his weak point. Especially Sherlock. He would do anything for the poor boy despite how most people, if not everyone, thought that he was far from close to his younger brother. In fact, he did not deny to himself the fact that he did distance himself from Sherlock because being openly close to him would be a danger not only to both parties but to the country and quite possibly the world, an occupational hazard unfortunately.

But of course he loved Eurus too, not that he would admit it to anyone. It was certainly a conflict of interests when she had threatened to kill Sherlock, and if she had been anyone else he would not have forgiven her ever because of the damage she had done to Sherlock's life. But she was his little sister, and besides who was he to judge? It had hurt. Loving her so much but having to lock her up, depriving her of things that it was a human's right to have. It hurt and plagued him constantly that she was trapped in hell and he had the 'key' to release her yet he did nothing about it. If she was let lose people would die. But more importantly Sherlock would die. And for Mycroft that was all he needed to know for him to be sure that Sherinford was the right place for her. But it didn't stop it from hurting.

That's why he'd told his mum and dad that she was dead. If he was them he'd have wanted the ignorance of thinking that. He had thought it was a kindness, he'd never meant to hurt them. But then that's what happens when he tries to understand emotion. Everyone ends up getting hurt.

Mycroft could remember vividly the look of horror and disgust in his mother's face. Her eyes burnt with the fire of a mother protecting her child from a threat. He was the threat not her child. That's all he was now. He could see the pleading note in her eyes, begging him to start laughing and say it was all some big joke. So she could slap him and shout at him for being so mean but then laugh with the relief of knowing it wasn't true. But it had been. It was. She had spent decades of her life thinking her daughter was dead. Her daughter had spent nearly all of her life completely isolated by everyone, thinking her family didn't care enough to pay even a single visit.

And when Mrs Holmes looked for someone to blame there Mycroft was. Not even a single defence. Just a look directly in her eyes and the words 'I was trying to be kind'. Not even an apology. Mycroft knew he was no longer her son. He was the monster who destroyed the life of her only daughter. Her tragic little baby. Eurus Holmes was a murderer, an emotionless psychopath. And yet Mrs Holmes loved her and despised Mycroft. It did put things in context. Even to someone as emotionally inept as Mycroft.

And then there was his dad. Mr Holmes. He hadn't made too much of a big deal. Not to say he wasn't upset about his daughter, more that Mycroft was not worth his time. His mother had talked to him, shouted, glared because she wanted some explanation that would make everything okay. But as he had looked at his father he saw that the man didn't think him worth the trouble. He was no son of his. Why would he grieve for him?

Sherlock. Sherlock still cared about him. Sherlock, despite everything he'd been through, all the shit that Mycroft had failed to protect him from or that Mycroft was responsible for himself. Sherlock for some weird reason still cared about him, just goes to show that he really was the kind, caring one. And that made it even worse. In giving Eurus presents he had wanted to make her miserable existence that he felt responsible for a little better. Because he did care about her. And yet in his attempts to try to help one of his siblings he ended up hurting them both. If he hadn't given her that gift then Sherlock wouldn't have had to go through his own personal hell. He would never forget the look in his eyes, he'd been so close to breaking. Mycroft would never forget all those nights Sherlock cried and cried and cried and screamed. He'd promised he'd never let that happen to him again. But instead of stopping it he was responsible for it.

Mycroft let himself slip down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, running his hands over his face. He pulled a white, rectangular packet out of his pocket and a lighter. It was about time for that cigarette.


	3. Indulgence and regret

Mycroft smiled. The misty, bitter smoke was everywhere. Inside him, seeping into a cloud in the room around him. Tainting his lungs and the air alike. He held it inside for as long as he could take before letting it out with a gush through his mouth, a feeling of satisfaction filling him as it flowed from within him. The smoke was far from erasing, it did not tamper with his thoughts or make him deluded into feeling false emotions or make him forget anything. But it did help. He couldn't explain how but it was glorious.

The low-tar allowed him to enjoy it all the more, no threat of choking or any unpleasant reactions were there to bother him. In his opinion smoking was a completely personal action. You did it because you wanted or needed to, whether you used low tar or full tar, a cigar or pipe or cigarette, whether you breathed out through your mouth or nose, the very reason why you did it and what thoughts or lack of thoughts you let fill yourself while doing it, it was all personal not something you did because of someone else or shared with someone else. At least in his experience it was. But maybe that was just because he was always alone anyway.

Lost in the sweet rhythm of inhaling, feeling the smoke burning inside him and exhaling with a gush, he could push his worries to the back of his mind. They were always there but he didn't have to focus on them. Right now he'd hit pause. He didn't doubt that as soon as he had nothing left to smoke the thoughts would return with a vengeance, he knew that even thinking about them in the context of trying to get the thoughts out of his head would send him on a downward spiral. So he didn't think. At least not about that. He thought about the cigarette that felt so familiar and comfortable in his hand, he thought about the soothing buzz it gave him, he thought about how many other cigarettes there were in the pack and the long amount of time it would take for him to use each one if he savoured every second like he was doing.

But it was gone so soon. Too soon. Mycroft reluctantly put the faintly glowing embers at the end of the roll out with his shoe. He grimaced, clutching his head as thoughts and memories started to flood back, nightmares merging with memories and memories merging with facts as he dismissed every dark thought without letting it form fully. Not now. He would normally let the thoughts form but not right now. Because now he had reserved for some peace. Just a little while of peace then he would face the chains he had been sentenced to, the demons he knew he well deserved. But not NOW.

And so he got another cigarette out and repeated the process. He was glad that he had bought a brand new pack that day. He had left his previous pack at his brother's flat. But luckily he had left it somewhere Sherlock wouldn't find it. He had no problems with Sherlock smoking but he felt somewhat guilty at the thought of Sherlock seeing the pack and being tempted into it when he hadn't previously intended to smoke. Perhaps he would retrieve the pack later.

Mycroft had sunk to a half curled position on the floor, his coat and waist coat were discarded precariously to the side. His shirt was untucked and crumpled and he gave a dry laugh. He would die of embarrassment if anyone were to see him in such a weakened state. But then he couldn't bring himself to care at that moment. And luckily for him, he was as alone as ever.

Mycroft smoked until he lost count of how many cigarettes he'd had. Cigarette buts littered the floor around him as the packet started to empty. His body laced with the distraction of smoking, Mycroft lost himself to sleep.

Waking up the next day was not a pleasant experience. Mycroft was stiff and aching all over from having fallen asleep on the floor. He instantly broke into a coughing fit and could reply honestly, to anyone who asked how he was, that he felt like his lungs and throat had been put through a sawdust grinder that hadn't been cleaned for several years.

After several moments he forced himself to stop coughing so that he wouldn't do any damage to himself. He managed to painfully hoist himself onto his feet and pour a glass of water which he slowly gulped down, the water feeling too cold and unusual against his dry, raw throat.

But what overcame him more than the physical discomfort was the pure shame. How had he let this happen? He'd finished a whole bloody pack of cigarettes in one go then fallen asleep on his own kitchen floor! And over what? Emotions? Nothing but his own emotions and the guilt that he well deserved for his actions. Mycroft groaned, he really did feel like absolute shit. And he had work, which he was already late for. Not that he actually had a designated time to arrive, just that people were used to him arriving when he did and would ask questions now.

Mycroft frowned to himself. There was the problem of how he'd let this happen. He decided to list down all of the factors that could have caused it:

-Hunger

-Lack of human distraction

-Low tar

With that list Mycroft decided that he should not skip any meals no matter how much he had earlier that day, even if it meant just having tea and biscuits for dinner. He should try to find an excuse to be around other people more often. Maybe he could drop by his brother's, make sure he was coping okay. And then there was Lady Smallwood. He supposed he really should text her if he didn't want to create some sort of tension or awkwardness that could conflict with work. And maybe if it was the effects of the cigarette his body wanted it was time to think about trying a full tar cigarette rather than letting himself finish a whole packet again.

Happy with the list, hoping that at least one of the changes would be effective, Mycroft changed his clothes quickly, the ones he'd been wearing were crumpled and wreaked of smoke. He could feel the thoughts of the previous night plaguing him yet he refused to think about it, he had work to do. The thoughts were always there. They had been ever since the whole thing had happened. They joined the already large pile of burdening thoughts that plagued him constantly and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't 'delete' them. But he could at least try to ignore them, he had an image to keep up. Besides he wasn't just British he was practically the British government itself! Keep calm and carry on. With that he picked up his umbrella and started his voyage back to work.


	4. A case for brother

Work was dreadfully dull, as was to be expected. Boring, boring, boring. Honestly, when you were literally the British government one would expect you'd actually have something challenging to do. But apparently all the terrorists and spies had decided to take the week off. Mycroft wondered, not for the first time, whether he should leave the country and go to some place that was an active war zone or had just recovered from conflict or the likes. It would be rather challenging and fun.

He shook his head. Stick to the diet, he decided, and when that became boring then he would let himself reconsider moving country. But it's not like anyone would miss him if he did. They needed him, not wanted him. But nowadays he was starting to wonder if he caused more trouble than he was worth. After all, the country had coped just fine before his birth.

Somehow Mycroft managed to get through work. It wasn't that he was required to be there, and it's not like he actually had anything to do. It's just that if he didn't do this then what else did he have to do? He was the working one, the successful business man, the heartless 'greater good' one. What did he have to be done if not work?

He once again repeated his actions of the night previously, hammering through work without thinking about it, just trying to go as fast as he could. If anyone were to ask Mycroft what exactly he'd been working on he would not be able to answer as he honestly had no clue, he just did it all on automatic. And that as good. He was improving, becoming less emotion and more machine. Emotion didn't suit him anyway.

The end of the day came, an acceptable work leaving time at least, and Mycroft stood up, rubbing at the imprints of the desk that'd marked his wrists to help blood flow naturally again. He'd been investigating and had picked out a case that Sherlock might like as something of a distraction and gift to the boy. It was dangerous and bizarre enough to tickle his interest but there was no chance of it becoming dangerous enough to be a long term threat or for it to put his friends in danger. And it involved a piratage of sorts.

There was a mass murder going on in a little fishing village on the east coast, each of the victims were marked with the black spot on their hand, a well known sea omen of death. The locals had decided it must be a ghost of a pirate or a siren and had taken to staying inside their homes, no one daring to come near the water. There was, he supposed, something interesting in the way that the black spots just appeared on the victims hands before their murders. There was also the way that the victims all ran manically around the neighbourhood apparently trying into run away from a monster only they could see. Then they would drop dead, tests showing that they drowned though they went nowhere near the water.

The case was, of course, completely transparent however he assumed Sherlock may find it a bit more challenging, though the main appeal is the fact he will have plenty of opportunity to be a real life pirate in the solving of this, and the people of the village even dressed in that sort of manor. Yes, Sherlock should rather like it.

So with the file of information and his own observations stored handily away in his mind, should he be asked anything, Mycroft set off. He would deliver the case file to his brother and regularly pop in to check on how he was getting on, that was his resolve to stay around people a bit more done. Thinking of it in such a selfish way sounded rather bad, he really did, of course, want to see his little brother. And the case was chosen by him for the purpose of amusing Sherlock and cheering him up, not using him to his personal advantage.

He decided to walk, although it was rather some distance from the office he was currently in to 221b Baker Street, his waistline and weight were telling him he definitely needed the exercise. He had missed lunch and breakfast that day, completely forgotten about the meals in fact; he had been too preoccupied to focus on such trivial things, despite his decision to eat all meals incase hunger triggered another hard smoking session. Oh well, he didn't exactly notice the hunger until he started thinking about it, and the burn in his stomach was kind of a good feeling after a while because it felt like something was happening, like he was getting slimmer.

Mycroft kept up a brisk pace, walking faster than some people jog. His legs burnt and he felt out of breath but on a whole it was glorious. He felt like he was exercising, like he was burning fat and losing weight, getting healthier. Seeing that video of the three siblings had, after he'd gotten over the terror, made him realise just how grossly overweight he'd been. Of course he was considerably thinner than that now but that didn't mean he wasn't still shockingly fat, and even more so unfit. If he kept on the way he had been for the last week or so then it wouldn't take long at all for him to be fat as he had been again then fatter. And he couldn't let that happen. So maybe it wasn't that much of a grievance that he'd forgotten to eat so far that day.

It was with considerable satisfaction that Mycroft found he was ten minutes away from his young brother's flat. He'd made it quite some distance and, although he was exhausted and sweaty, he was proud of himself. He decided that he would spend the next week at the very least walking everywhere rather then getting dropped by a cab or one of his cars. That was the lazy way to go about it and he was not going to be lazy any longer. Mycroft quickly popped into a side ally to straighten off his clothes and makes sure he didn't look too red or sweaty. It wouldn't do to be seen in such a state.

Mycroft walked the rest of the distance in a normal, calm pace, letting his breathing and heart rate return to normal. He popped into a corner store on the way, purchasing a pack of full tar cigarettes and a lighter, he'd used what was left of his old one up the night before. The man behind the counter looked mildly surprised at his appearance, presumably used to scruffy looking regulars being his main customer audience for cigarettes. It was always something that rather amused Mycroft, for some reason people seemed to find it hard to believe he smoked.

Exiting the store he opened the pack and took one out, putting it between his lips before pocketing the packet. He lit it and cautiously took a drag, when Sherlock had found out that his older brother found it difficult to smoke a regular cigarette the subject had been a source of endless amusement for the younger, much to Mycroft dismay. However, his careless lapse of dangerous smoking the night prior must have helped callous his body to the effects and Mycroft was able to take a good drag without it disagreeing with him in the slightest. In fact, he found it rather enjoyable. It was similar, of corse, smoking was smoking, but the effects were much more pleasurable than he'd expected. Who would want to willingly give up smoking? Well, of course, there was the effects on one's health but everyone was going to die anyway.

Mycroft continued to smoke as he walked, limited to one cigarette, though he seemed content with this, the difference between this and the low tar he'd become used to was rather pleasant. He soon reached the door of 221b and dropped the cigarette into a puddle, stumping it with his shoe. To hell with littering, these streets would be a war zone if it weren't for him, then litter would be the least of people's problems.


	5. Sherlock and the Telly

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, his arms wrapped around a pillow and his legs pulled up to his chest. He was staring wide eyed at the tv screen. John stared at him, frowning. For most people staring mindlessly into a TV screen was not unusual behaviour, but for Sherlock Holmes it was unheard of. Of course it was definitely less irritating for the man to be seemingly absorbed in something that was not completely destructive however John couldn't help but be very concerned.

"Sherlock?" He asked in a clear but soothing tone. It brought no reply from the younger man, not even a blink. And John started to wonder when exactly it was that the detective had last blinked. "Sherlock…" he got up from his chair and shook his flatmate by the shoulder "Hey, Sherlock can you hear me?" Said man grunted, and moved out of his friend's grip. John sighed, getting up and flicking off the tv at the screen, since the remote was being guarded very protectively by Sherlock, who looked like he would breath fire at anyone who tried to touch it.

That instantly caused a reaction, Sherlock snapped upright with a look of indignation "Joohhnnn!" He whined, looking at his friend with a hurt and desperate expression. "Sherlock, what the hell has gotten into you? You hate TV." Sherlock huffed "John, I appreciate your concern but I'm completely fine. Just doing an experiment into what normal people do in their spare time now move out of the way! If you don't turn it on I won't know whether Stacy got that jerk Dave to acknowledge the fact that Rease is his son! What if he disowns the poor boy? He's only a baby! Do you know what that type of thing does to a child, John? The least he could do is help pay for his upbringing!"

John stared incredulously at the infamous detective that was currently half collapsed at his feet, begging and half sobbing. "Sherlock. Stop this, look at yourself! I never thought I'd say this to you but please experiment on toes or set fire to a cupboard or two. Anything! Just stop this, whatever it is." John sighed and crouched down beside him "Sherlock what's up?"

Sherlock straightened "You're right, sorry. I… I'm just… bored." Sherlock muttered, picking himself off the floor and sitting back against the sofa, his fingers perched beneath his chin. John looked at him for a long moment before sighing and turning away. He went into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on deciding he could better approach Sherlock if he wasn't empty handed.

"Alright, what's gotten into you?" John said, perching on the edge of the sofa, handing Sherlock a cup of tea which he took but did not make any move to drink. After a couple moments silence John started to wonder whether he was wasting his time. "It's my fault, John." Sherlock's voice was husky and quivering, surprising John in the sudden disruption of the silence. He frowned as he processed the words "What's your fault, Sherlock?" Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat and covered his eyes with his hands, shaking his head, the tea sitting on the floor beside the sofa, forgotten. "Sherlock, that was all very hard on you. Hell, she made that whole 'experiment' to torture you. You need to talk about this, you can't just keep this inside because it will break you, Sherlock, no matter how clever you are."

"Look, you don't even have to talk to me. A therapist. You need one now more than ever." Sherlock snorted "Yeah, because you've had such a good experience with therapists." John rolled his eyes though he was relieved that Sherlock was feeling up to making his usual sarcastic comments. "Yeah, okay. But, sorry to break it to you, not all therapists are as exciting as the ones I've had. Anyway, you could get Mycroft to put you in touch with one of the best and most trust worthy therapists, I'm sure he knows someone."

At the mention of his brother, Sherlock pursed his lips "I don't think any of us needs a therapist more than Mycroft himself, John." John frowned "What do you mean, he seems to be doing fine, as always." Sherlock bit at his lip in thought and anxiety "Yes that's the problem. He always seems fine. When I'm not fine no one can ignore it no matter how hard they try, but Mycroft. He's a whole other story. And even I can hardly read him. But he must have been hurt by this more than me or mummy or daddy. He's had to deal with this for so long without any help, he had to try to figure out what to do when there was no right answer and he had no one to help him or even tell him that he wasn't a monster for it. And goodness knows what else he deals with in his occupation."

He sighed and shook his head "It's okay, John. I will see a therapist if it'll make you feel better. I'm not ready yet, but I will I promise you. And I will tell you too. But right now I really don't want to think about any of it, hence the tv." John nodded with a small smile and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder "Okay, Sherlock. But no more of that reality drama crap, you know how you get after watching one of them. Bloody hell, I'd rather face Cluedo honestly. Budge." He said, Sherlock sat up and moved so there was space on the sofa for the two of them and John picked up the remote and flicked over to Black Adder, passing Sherlock his tea.

The pair sat and watched, Sherlock grumbling at certain inaccuracies or scoffing at bad acting. Sometimes looking slightly sulky when something impressed him, causing John to smirk. He could see that Sherlock was not okay, of course he wasn't. Neither was John but he was definitely better of than his friend, he couldn't even begin to comprehend the trauma that he must be going through, and that he'd already gone through. But he could see that Sherlock did want to get over this and that he was making do. And that was good. The two had both gone through so much and, like everything else, they could get through this too.

Of course the scars would still be there and it would always hurt but they had each other, somehow they'd both managed to pull through everything in one piece. They could get through this by helping each other, and helping the other help them.

John smiled, looking at his best friend. He'd missed this. How he'd ever though he could be away from Sherlock and this crazy life he'd come to love, he didn't know. Being apart from Sherlock so much made him realise just how much he couldn't function without this all. Guilt kept forming within John at the way he had treated Sherlock, completely neglecting and beating him to the ground, metaphorically and literally, when he needed comforting just as much as John did. But he let the guilt slide away. He was here now. He couldn't let himself get trapped in a spiral of self pity, it did no one any good. All he had to do was make sure he didn't make the same mistake again.

If the curly haired man noticed his companion's thoughtful mood or hard gaze, he didn't say anything about it. The two just watched tv simple and careless, letting themselves just be for a while. Because they both needed it. It had to have been several hours when a ring of the door bell had them looking up. Sherlock frowned, he didn't recognise the ring or the thought process behind it. Mrs Hudson's steps could be heard as she walked down the stairs before they were heard again and she opened their door "Boys, it's Mycroft."


	6. Dinner?

As soon as Mycroft had rung the door bell he regretted it. He had done it as an act of acknowledgement, he knew that he did not own the place therefore he had no right to waltz in like he did. Besides, he shouldn't pretend that the fact it was his brother's house changed anything, if anything it made him less welcome. But it was definitely suspiciously out of character of him and he really did not want more attention than was absolutely necessary at the moment.

He put on his custom fake smile as the door swung open to reveal Mrs Hudson. Mycroft internally cringed at the weird look she gave him but thankfully she did not say anything. "Good evening, Mrs Hudson." He said with a emotionless smile, the woman knew him well enough, if only just, to not be fooled by his fake exterior, not that she could see his true self, just that she could tell what she was seeing wasn't it even if she didn't know what the alternative would be. To such people, they tended to be his brother's associates, he just gave them a business man's smile and a mask of emotionlessness few could even begin to look past, he didn't bother to lace any fake emotion into his actions. "I'll tell them you're here." The lady said after a nod of greeting, she then departed up the stairs.

Mycroft laughed dryly to himself. It was certainly notable the way that she did not smile or make him feel welcome because of corse he wasn't. She didn't tell him to come in because she did not want him to but she did not tell him to go away, because she knew the self dubbed British government would do as he pleased and no one could stop him. With the heavy feeling that he was highly unwelcome, Mycroft walked into the flat, climbing the stairs with a surprising feeling of dread.

"Hello, brother mine." Mycroft said with a smile, trying to keep his face blank and his body unreadable. For some reason he felt defensive, as if he had to justify himself. For what he hadn't the slightest clue. The feeling was ludicrous, as feelings mostly where, he had nothing he needed to defend and even if he did why would he need to justify himself? And yet he got the urge to squirm as he felt the calculating gaze of his younger brother scanning him accompanied by John's less observant yet still considerably professional watch.

"What is this, Mycroft, you don't do house calls, what do you want?" Sherlock said after tearing his eyes off his brother's appearance and any clues it had to the man's life. Mycroft couldn't help the annoying nagging of not knowing what the conclusion was his brother had come to from his assessment, because he never stopped scanning until he'd gotten something.

"You're quite right." He said, getting to the business bit, which was really much more his element "I've come to present a case to you." He said, handing over the file "A mass killing in a little fishing village on the east coast, I doubt you will have to do much work away from home for it. The locals expect magic or evil spirits or something just as ridiculous."

Sherlock took the file and flicked through it quickly, making a little noise of approval "Why? This is hardly 'a matter of national importance' so why do you care?" Mycroft shrugged, feeling very much like he was in an interrogation under the younger Holmes' scrutiny. "I don't, but I came across it and thought you might enjoy solving it." He replied earnestly, eliciting a snort from Sherlock "And you walked the whole way across London to give it to me in person? You never walk anywhere, in fact you never leave your office if you can help it. Why do this?" Sherlock frowned suspiciously.

Mycroft felt his head starting to throb with a forming head ache and he resisted the urge to massage his temples. Why had he thought that this was a good idea? "Sherlock, I just thought you'd be interested in the case, okay? I walked here because there is a rather refreshing breeze and I felt like it. I have no idea why I felt like it, human nature will always remain a mystery to me. Now if we are quite done I do have stuff to be doing other than standing in your living room and trying to ease your paranoia." Mycroft grimaced as he saw some puzzle pieces falling together in Sherlock's mind. He did not understand why his brother was being like this today, it's not like he was doing anything that he had to hide yet Sherlock seemed to be monitoring him like some experiment.

Mycroft huffed and turned to leave but as he reached for the door his brother's voice stopped him. "Don't leave, Mycroft. I just… John and I were just about to go out for dinner, would you like to come with us? There is a new restaurant that is celebrating their opening tonight, free drinks, specials, discounts that type of thing." Mycroft looked up at him in surprise "Are you quite alright, Sherlock?" He asked, thrown by the uncharacteristic behaviour. Sherlock smiled dryly "Always. So will you come?" Mycroft opened his mouth, a declination evident on his face but he was cut off by Sherlock "Please?" Mycroft frowned, surveying his younger brother. "Well if I won't be a bother." He said hesitantly, noting the relief in Sherlock's eyes. "Excellent, lets get going. The owner promised me a table but there's only so much you can do when it gets really popular, we'd better get a move on."

Mycroft nodded and retreated down the stairs. His left hand was balled into a fist, the nails digging into his palm, as he cringed internally. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Now Sherlock was acting all strange, presumably he'd come up with some over the top explanation for some data about his clothing that meant he was in grave danger or terminally ill or being stalked by a killer or something. Anyway, had he not just sworn off trying to be kind and act via feelings? Had he still not learn his lesson about how it's safer for the people he cared about if he just stayed away?

Mycroft clenched his clenched tighter. It was not an act of anger, well maybe a bit towards himself, but more a way of dealing with the emotions that he didn't understand well enough to deal with. He couldn't help but feel that he'd completely failed at this interaction and he had no idea why. Perhaps it was because he'd let a bit of truth and emotion into his words. Maybe it was because he'd somehow failed to keep the frosty façade he often used up. He just hated the way Sherlock had looked at him. Why? Why did he look at him like that? It then struck Mycroft what look that was and why it irritated him. Sherlock was looking at him as if he was one of his cases, a problem for him to pick up clues on until he solved it. But that was unfair and uncalled for, because there was nothing about Mycroft to be 'solved' or 'fixed'. There was no problem.

And then there was the whole matter of dinner. The idea would normally have excited Mycroft, as long as it was a good restaurant he did enjoy eating. But he couldn't help the nagging feeling within him that told him this was wrong. For the first time in ages Mycroft hadn't eaten some massive, over the top breakfast and lunch, and he'd even walked all across London. He couldn't help but feel disappointed in himself that he was going to give in now. Presumably he would eat far more than he'd burned off, because he could never resist food. And this sounded like a good deal. Sherlock and John would be there. Sherlock was accustom to Mycroft's eating habits but John wasn't. What would the good doctor think of him now? His ice man image would surely be ruined, for what type of cool and respected man had an obsession with cake? Mycroft sighed to himself, the packet of cigarettes feeling as if they were burning a hole in his pocket as he longed to have one, despite the fact he'd only just finished one before coming in.

Sherlock watched his brother's tall form descend down the stairs with a look of concern. John turned to him "Dinner? Since when were we going out for dinner?" John watched his friend in curiosity. He could tell something was wrong but he didn't know what "Sherlock, what's going on?" The only reply he got from the curly haired detective was a muttered "Full tar."


	7. Sherlock's deductions

Something was wrong. Sherlock could tell from the moment Mycroft walked in. Well of course there was something wrong, anyone could smell it. The smokey smell that had stained his brother's body from a big smoking episode, but it wasn't that. He did do that from time to time when he was stressed out, and in the job Mycroft had that tended to be rather often. But no, there was a fresher smell of smoke, full tar smoke, even though it was faint from having mingled with the rain outside which suggested he had smoked on the way here, quite soon before arriving too since the rain had not washed the smell away. In fact, from the intensity of the smell and the slightly off look to Mycroft's pupils he'd guess he'd probably finished smoking right outside the door.

The fact that his pupils were so effected meant he had only just started smoking full tar so it was having the maximum effect on his body. The fact he was smoking full tar was alarming to Sherlock, his brother never did that if he could help it. He found the strong effects unpleasant and intolerable yet here he was smoking it out of choice. And he'd only just started which also meant that unlike Sherlock's (failing) attempts to lessen his smoking, Mycroft was at the very brink of a downward spiral in the habit. And Sherlock intended to find out why.

Sherlock's eyes passed to John. Surely he smelt it too but perhaps dismissed it. Maybe he waved it of as normal, being aware of both Holmes's smoking habits and not being familiar enough with the smell to know the difference between full and low tar. Or perhaps he had become numb to the smell, the apartment smelling strongly of chemicals, cigarette smoke being amongst the safest of them. He thought it best not to confront his brother about the smoking just yet since he would definitely become defensive and leave, the personal guilt about his lapse into a worse addiction would probably make him react more violently to any exterior questioning.

Then there was the fact that was also evidently under both his and John's noses. Maybe John just didn't know Mycroft well enough to pick out the things that meant he was not doing well. The rain. His coat wasn't damp it was soaked through and his face was slightly flushed despite the chill outside. He'd walked, quite some distance, in this weather. And Mycroft hated walking.

Normally he would get a car but supposing that was for some reason out of his reach the only explanation Sherlock could think of for his brother coming in person, walking through the rain for ages and smoking full tar was that he had some very important case, something important at a national scale and he was stressed out over it but he could also not trust any of his workers with the information therefore he couldn't come by car (since then his visit to his brother would be more traceable and around suspicion) and he couldn't trust anyone to deliver the information for him, or to post it or say it over the phone. Therefore he had to walk across London to say it.

"What is this, Mycroft, you don't do house calls, what do you want?" He asked in a sharp tone, knowing his brother would probably become suspicious of anything else and guard his answer. He frowned at his brother's answer. A mass murder in a little fishing village? He flicked through the file trying to find something that would make it significant to his brother. Of course, the case did sound rather fun. A lot more intriguing than the cases he'd had lately and he would definitely be on it straight away. But why did his brother care?

"Why? This is hardly 'a matter of national importance' so why do you care?" He asked directly, honestly confused. Was there some hidden importance? Was this little case a part of something bigger? It surely didn't seem like it, but why else would Mycroft give a damn? "I don't, but I came across it and thought you might enjoy solving it." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, not hiding his scepticism. "And you walked the whole way across London to give it to me in person? You never walk anywhere, in fact you never leave your office if you can help it. Why do this?" He asked, his curiosity increasing as this puzzle seemed to become more complex than he'd originally thought.

"Sherlock, I just thought you'd be interested in the case, okay? I walked here because there is a rather refreshing breeze and I felt like it. I have no idea why I felt like it, human nature will always remain a mystery to me. Now if we are quite done I do have stuff to be doing other than standing in your living room and trying to ease your paranoia." Sherlock watched his brother's outburst with a blank mask, every word his brother said giving him a little more insight.

Mycroft was always easier to read on the rare occasion he was upset. Sherlock regretted pushing his brother so much, wanting to get some sort of answer. He'd thought his brother was stressed out over something at work but his references to human nature and the fact was being defensive rather than reflective meant this was something personal that was upsetting him. Sherlock decided he didn't like his brother being upset, he was always the calm and collected one, the one who always understood, the one he could always count on to comfort him when he was crying. Seeing Mycroft himself upset felt unnatural, tragic and wrong. He was going to find out what was wrong and he would fix it. But how was he supposed to do that now? He'd just pushed Mycroft too much and now he was leaving.

Sherlock couldn't exactly explain the desperate feeling he felt as his brother walked towards the door. Maybe he was worried about his brother, or perhaps he himself needed his brother's presence, someone he could always rely on to truly understand him. "Don't leave, Mycroft. I just… John and I were just about to go out for dinner, would you like to come with us? There is a new restaurant that is celebrating their opening tonight, free drinks, specials, discounts that type of thing." The surprised look his brother gave him made his heart twinge, why did the idea of being asked to dinner with them seem so foreign to Mycroft? Why had Sherlock let it become like that?

"Are you quite alright, Sherlock?" Mycroft's words made Sherlock remember that he really wasn't, normally he would not acknowledge that but between finding out about his sister and 'redbeard' and losing Mary and almost being killed by Culverton Smith and John hating him, blaming him and the drugs he really was not okay and it would be suicide to live in denial of that. He needed to get help, not for his own sake but because somehow he'd managed to get friends, people who actually cared about him, he didn't want them to worry because they all had their own problems. But he didn't need to bring that up now, Mycroft worried about him enough without him having to increase that.

"Always. So will you come?" Sherlock felt the desperate feeling return, which puzzled him to no end. He saw that Mycroft was about to decline and a sense of urgency and panic joined the desperation "Please?" He said earnestly, his eyes begging. "Well if I won't be a bother." At the words relief filled Sherlock and he smiled. Now the feelings and caring was over he was back in his element "Excellent, lets get going. The owner promised me a table but there's only so much you can do when it gets really popular, we'd better get a move on."

Sherlock watched Mycroft leaving with a worried expression. Sherlock watched his brother's tall form descend down the stairs with a look of concern. John turned to him "Dinner? Since when were we going out for dinner?" John watched his friend in curiosity. He could tell something was wrong but he didn't know what "Sherlock, what's going on?" The only reply he got from the curly haired detective was a muttered "Full tar."


	8. Cab ride thoughts

"-lock? Sherlock." John's voice snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts. The three men were sitting in a cab on the way to dinner. Mycroft was sitting in the front next to the driver while the other two sat in the back. Sherlock scowled slightly at John, wondering what it was that was so important he had to disrupt his thinking "Yes?" John looked momentarily at the older Holmes, who appeared to be thinking as he looked out the window, then at the sound proof sheet that separated Mycroft and the driver from Sherlock and himself. He recognised the cab company and knew this was one of the newer makes, which had been installed with sound proof glass.

"What's wrong with Mycroft?" He asked, causing his taller companion to look surprised. "You noticed too?" Sherlock asked, scanning over John in thought, he had assumed it was just him who had noticed something off about Mycroft. John pursed his lips "Yeah, not to hard, you know. You don't have to be the famous Sherlock Holmes to notice something's off when Mycroft actually rings the doorbell. And anyway, I'm a doctor and on top of that I'm your best friend, I can recognise when someone hasn't eaten." Sherlock frowned "What do you mean?"

John looked at his companion is surprise "You didn't notice? As in you, Mr Knowitall, didn't notice your own brother hasn't eaten?" Sherlock scowled, a feeling of embarrassment curling within him. But it was Mycroft, he was always perfect and flawless and he did like to eat, and was known to eat a bit too much. Of course Sherlock didn't notice he hadn't eaten, he wasn't exactly expecting to see it.

"Yeah, okay, I didn't notice he hadn't eaten, I was a bit preoccupied with the fact he'd actually smoked full tar. All the better that I invited him to dinner then." Sherlock pointed out. John hummed in thought "Yeah, but Sherlock if he isn't eating he might not eat properly now either. And even if he does feel obliged to he might, you know, make it come back up when he's out of our presence." Sherlock looked mildly horrified at the idea before shaking his head "No, it's nothing like that. He's Mycroft, he wouldn't do that. Besides, he's just missed a couple meals, probably because of work stress or something, he does tend to worry quite easily. You're over reacting, just because he's missed a meal does not mean he has an eating disorder." Sherlock spat the last two words, hardly able to get them out.

John nodded "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, I just haven't quite gotten my head out of work yet, today. All the times I've had to diagnose people with various eating disorders. But you're right, he doesn't fit the symptoms. I suppose we'll be able to double check when we see him eating and how he reacts to it. But from a medical viewpoint I'd say he's okay. I mean he looks tired and stressed but can't blame the man, he does have a bloody lot of responsibility on his shoulders." Sherlock nodded, letting himself calm down.

If Mycroft could sense he was being talked about he took no notice. He was looking out of the window in a way that someone who didn't know the man might call absentmindedly. He was watching the scene unfolding outside, absorbing facts and putting pictures together from the little factors he could see, he did it as a second nature, the larger part of his conscious mind was thinking about the dinner.

Of course, there was the fact that being with his brother had definitely had the positive effect of taking his mind of the whole Eurus business for a while. But the affair was always there in his mind, just bellow the surface ready to haunt him at the slightest trigger. But for the time being it was kept at bay, instead Mycroft was worrying about dinner. Why had Sherlock asked him? He seemed to detest his older brother's presence half the time so why would he willingly ask him to dinner? Was he just saying it because he felt obliged to? Was saying yes the wrong decision? Was he now going to be a burdening third wheel on what would have been a pleasant night for two best friends? He hadn't wanted that. He was better off just staying alone at home. Right now Mycroft could be sitting alone at home doing some more work and actually contributing positively to society rather than eating aka wasting valuable resources that he didn't need.

Mycroft shook his head. What'd gotten into him? He'd never had any qualms with eating out before. Besides, he'd said yes now. No matter what he should have done or what he could be doing right now it wouldn't change the fact this is what he was doing. He might as well enjoy himself like he would have several years prior. Nodding to himself he decided he would just pretend everything was fine and he was the happy, self confident if a bit pompous man he had been. He unfurled his fist, which he'd balled earlier, one of the only outward signs of his anxiety, wincing as he did so as he saw each nail had left a pink imprint and had drawn blood. Hopefully no one would look at his hands, but who would? He should be fine.

The cab pulled up on the road of the restaurant at Sherlock's instruction and the three got out, paying and dismissing the driver. Sherlock ruffled his hair and walked into the building with long strides, followed by John and Mycroft. The other two watched as Sherlock greeted the owner with a smile, the lady smiled back and talked with an air of familiarity and friendliness to him. Mycroft marvelled at the way Sherlock could befriend so many people, the restaurant had only just opened and he already had the owner in his favour. To all the people who said Sherlock was not social or friendly they clearly didn't know him very well, the man seemed to be on good terms with almost everyone everywhere for some reason or another.

Mycroft couldn't help but feel jealous and a little guilty. Jealous knowing that he would never be able to talk so freely and happily to people but guilty knowing that Sherlock himself didn't feel that he was social or likeable and Mycroft knew it was his fault, he would always tease the boy and say he didn't have friends and frankly he was disgusted with himself for it. Just because he didn't want the one person who seemed to care about him going away to care more about others was no excuse to bring someone down and make them insecure. As he thought about it Mycroft realised that it simply made sense. Of course anyone who actually managed to like, or at least not despise, him would be a very sociable person. The thought stung a bit and he felt like a charity case but there was nothing Mycroft could do to change the truth.

"Mycroft?" At the sound of his name being called Mycroft looked up. A waitress had led john to a table, Sherlock was standing in front of Mycroft looking concerned. Mycroft became aware of how he had half zoned out for a little. "Sorry." He said, quickly making his way to the table, his fist clenching again as he kicked himself for being so careless. What was that about? He was Mycroft Holmes, he didn't 'zone out'.

Sherlock watched his brother walk to the table for a moment, his worry increasing. He sighed and followed behind. He'd probably just been thinking about whatever it was at work that had him so stressed. Maybe taking him out to dinner would help him get his mind off whatever it was, even if he didn't want to tell them. Sherlock sighed again, he really hoped he could help. What was the point in being able to solve cases, save families, fix lives, when he couldn't even help his own brother, who had been the only thing that'd kept him going on far too many occasions. He would get to the bottom of this and he would help Mycroft whether he wanted it or not.


	9. Drinks and Daydreams

"Hello, sirs, I'll be your waitress today and here are your menus. Tonight we have a special event as you will probably know. To celebrate our opening all main meals are half price. If you pay for one drink you can get as many top ups as you like charge free. There is unlimited free starters and desserts for every main meal purchased. Additionally feel free to help yourself to the celebratory cake, it has broken the record for the largest restaurant made Victoria sponge cake in England, the marzipan fruits on top were also made by us. There will be dancing and live music from nine. If you need anything I'd be happy to help." With that the waitress left.

Mycroft chuckled "You certainly have an eye for events, brother mine." Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile "Living in central London there's always something going on, you just need to keep a look out." As they all looked over their menus Mycroft mused over how if it were several years prior the thought of unlimited dessert and such a large cake would excite him greatly. Sherlock would have made some sort of comment along the lines of him probably having to revisit the place as a crime scene later on because Mycroft will murder that cake.

Yet now he could feel no such enthusiasm, all he could think about was what a dreadful waste the cake there would be when it inevitably went unfinished. Or imagine how much sugar they'd have had to pour into wherever they would have mixed the batter. Probably packets and packets. He didn't really have any opposition to it but his teeth ached just thinking about it. And Sherlock seemed to have become hesitant about making any jokes about Mycroft's weight recently. Mycroft pursed his lips, maybe Sherlock had decided that Mycroft had become too weak and delicate to be able to take that. Or maybe he'd realised that nowadays if he made a joke about Mycroft's size it'd be too true. Mycroft sighed, his appetite dissipating somewhat. He then realised he'd zoned out again, but luckily this time he'd had the menu in his line of sight so it didn't look to strange to be wordlessly staring.

Sherlock watched his brother over his menu. The taller man's eyes were unfocused, his pupils not the size they should be if they were looking at the menu and his eyes stayed in one spot rather than scanning over words. That and the suggestive fact that the man hadn't noticed his younger brother blatantly staring at him meant he had zoned out. Thinking about what? Was there some massive threat of disaster that was affecting the country or threatened to and Mycroft had to come up with a way to prevent damage? Had he come to give Sherlock that case as something a bit more light hearted to concentrate on? Sherlock sighed, hopefully cake would cheer Mycroft up later.

And he really hoped that Mycroft's food consumption wouldn't be out of character because he didn't think he'd be able to handle it if Mycroft developed an eating disorder. John met Sherlock's gaze and gave him a reassuring smile, knowing he was worrying about his brother. "We'll be able to see if he is eating properly soon, okay? And even if he isn't it's not the end of the world I've helped people with eating disorders before." John whispered to Sherlock who nodded with a small smile.

Needless to say when the waitress came back none of the men had actually looked at their menus. None of them had any desire to have a longer choosing time so they all just asked for a drink they knew they liked. "I'll have a regular bitter, please." John said with a smile to the waitress as she jotted down. "Pimm's." Mycroft replied simply, deciding he'd had enough whisky at home and didn't want to alarm Sherlock, who knew he only drank that when he was stressed. "Strawberry and lime cider, thank you." Sherlock said, passing over the drink menu. "Very good, sirs, are you ready to order mains or should I be back with you in a minute?" She asked, collecting their drink menus. "Yeah, another minute or two would be great, thanks." John said and the waitress nodded, leaving.

"Have you two decided?" John said, looking at his menu. Sherlock shrugged "Maybe fish and chips. I'll probably pass on the starter, not that hungry." John nodded "Mycroft, how about you?" Mycroft pursed his lips "Um maybe a steak and ale pie or a calzone. I guess I'll have steamed pork gyoza for a starter since it's free. What about yourself?" John looked over the menu "Hm, not sure. The gammon steak sounds good I'll go for that."

Their waitress arrived back with their drinks and she took their orders. Mycroft sipped at his drink. Although it was more refreshing than intoxicating, the inevitable kick that came with all alcohols was welcomed by him greatly. He fiddled with the straw, pushing the various fruits around in the glass. When Sherlock had seen Mummy drink it as a very young child he'd been extremely fascinated by the fact it was garnished with a cucumber.

He'd wanted to eat the cucumber, strawberry and raspberry and smell the mint but Mummy wouldn't let him because it had alcohol on and he was only a toddler. In the end he'd made such a fuss Mycroft had gone to ask a waiter if he could give Sherlock a Pimm's style drink except with just lemonade and no alcohol. Sherlock had had a complete ball with his 'grown up' drink. Mind, a lot of it had ended up on the floor and over Mycroft's shirt but the beautiful smile on Sherlock's face was worth it completely. Mycroft smiled distantly at the memory. He looked up at his grown up baby brother. He loved Sherlock so much.

"So," said John, looking at his two companions "Since neither of you will do it I guess I should start conversation. How've you been, Mycroft? Haven't seen you in a while." Mycroft pursed his lips, smalltalk was not one of his best areas, although he did know how to smalltalk when he met some important person or another, but smalltalk with someone you actually knew was different. "Oh, I've been fine. I've just been caught up in some paper work. Being a politician and business man is far less exciting than a doctor or detective."

Sherlock frowned internally in frustration at how much his brother could talk without saying a thing about himself. It was a technique he had learnt from his older brother where you are vague about yourself, making your life seem too boring to be of interest as a conversational topic. You then turn the conversation on the people talking to you, flatter them then give them a new topic starter so the conversation can drift away from yourself. Of course he had used the skill many times since learning it, but he didn't like it when it was used on him rather than by him.

"Just paperwork? Must be boring. Sure there's no national disasters at the brink of taking place that I should know about?" Sherlock said offhandedly, there was no way his brother would respond properly if he was full on interrogated. The key to hiding was lacing what you say with truth. If Mycroft said enough truth Sherlock could try to pick them out and piece them together. It's not that Sherlock's thought Mycroft was particularly trying to hide anything, just that it was second nature to both brothers not to let anyone know anything about themselves.

Mycroft smiled "No, I assure you the country is being quite boring right now. I've been condemned to petty paperwork. Even you could do it. Actually you probably don't have the patience." John chuckled "Cheers to that." Sherlock smiled but it didn't reach his eyes, he could see the honesty in Mycroft's words. There really was nothing big and complex and stressful. He could tell from the earnest boredom that he really had been doing paperwork, now he could notice the bruises along his wrists from where he leant his arms against the potable edge, the angles showing he'd been writing for some time with his right hand while holding paper down with the other. So if his brother really had been just doing stressless, boring paperwork then what was it that'd got him so exhausted and off?


	10. Bleeding

Mycroft sat feeling considerably uncomfortable as the pair chatted carelessly about things he had not been there to experience. He felt like a complete third wheel as the best friends laughed together. But that was okay, he had never really been anything other than a third wheel so he was used to it. Besides, it had its pros. The attention wasn't on you, people tended to hate you less if you didn't talk enough to mess up, it gave you an opportunity to relaxedly listen to other people and observe them while not having to say anything about yourself. It was actually rather enjoyable once you got past the loneliness. You could hear the conversation, watch the people's expressions, observe, watch as if it were a movie. John had been trying to keep him in the conversation as much as he could but slowly he gave up as Mycroft gave small answers.

"Hey, Mycroft, what's that?" John said, making Mycroft look up at him in surprise. Both he and Sherlock were looking at his hand in concern. His hand? Oh… Mycroft had all but forgotten about it himself. He'd accidentally made his hand bleed by digging his nails in too hard. The small amount of blood had dropped bone his palm and dried, making it look a lot worse than it really was.

"It's nothing, Dr Watson, just a little cut-" Sherlock scowled at his brother and took his hand, holding it open so he could examine the wound. "Mycroft, why didn't you tell us you where hurt?" He asked, dipping a serviette in his water and cleaning the wound. Mycroft rolled his eyes "Sherlock, I'm fine. It's a tiny cut, you can see for yourself that I am fine. If I wasn't I would hardly have wordlessly agreed to come to dinner with you." Sherlock ignored him, cleaning Mycroft's hand until the blood had gone before showing to John.

John took his hand and looked it over "What happened, Mycroft? Tell me properly." Mycroft rolled his eyes but decided against arguing with the doctor, no matter how unnecessary all this fuss was. "I had balled my fist on the cab ride here. Too tight apparently. It made me bleed a bit, but nothing that needs all this fuss. I don't understand what you two are making such a big deal about. Both of you have been shot and stabbed and nearly blown up. This is just a few small scratches, why would you care?" John and Sherlock exchanged a look that Mycroft could not understand. Sentiment probably.

"Right. Well, I don't think I need to warn you about the dangers of leaving cuts uncleaned, especially in areas such as your hands. And even with small cuts, it's quite easy to damage nerves if you cut yourself in some way on your hand." John warned, wrapping a small length of tissue around Mycroft's hand. The man attempted to hide a blush, he would never understand the peculiar brains of those who cared and felt freely.

"How did you feel?" Sherlock said, looking into his brother's eyes with an intense look Mycroft couldn't read. "I'm sorry, what?" Mycroft said. Honestly all of this sentiment was confusing him, a state he did not like to be in. "Feel. How did you feel? When you accidentally hurt yourself." John looked at Sherlock abruptly, clearly understanding more about this line of inquiry than Mycroft did. "Um, well I felt surprised. I hadn't noticed it was bleeding, I was preoccupied. I didn't give it much thought, honestly." He answered. Sherlock pursed his lips then nodded.

The table was spared from being plunged into an uncomfortable silence when their meals arrived. Sherlock started picking at his chips with no particular intent of eating them, though he nibbled at one of two every time John urged him to do so. John ate his roast happily, thoughtlessly. Mycroft looked down at his meal. He'd decided to go with the steak and ale pie but he couldn't say he had much of an appetite. He shook his head and started eating. It did smell rather good and the taste was just the same. Mycroft decided he'd forget about trying to be healthy for now. The occasion was the opening of a restaurant, how were you supposed to celebrate that without eating? After dropping the illusion of restraint Mycroft ate freely, he really was the flip opposite to his younger brother when it came to food.

Later in the evening and Mycroft was absolutely stuffed. He'd finished his meal and had a couple desserts as well as the cake and a few too many drinks, despite his decision to stick to milder alcohols. Unlike his brother he had a high alcohol tolerance and was therefore only feeling a bit fuzzy.

Sherlock watched his brother. To his relief the man had not shown any restrictions with food or any regret after eating it. In that respect he seemed okay. He was less than happy about Mycroft's seeming disregard of the cuts on his hand but he could tell from the reaction to his questioning that Mycroft had not intended to hurt himself. In general he seemed okay. Maybe it was merely being cooped up in an office with paperwork all day that had Mycroft so exhausted. Sherlock couldn't imagine having to do that, it sounded torturously dull and brain rotting. If he'd had to do it he'd probably have made something explode at the very least.

Now that Mycroft had gotten away from that he seemed to have gotten happier. But something still didn't seem right to Sherlock. He sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. He decided to keep his brother a bit closer than usual, call him in for cases, dinners, playing games whatever. He would keep an eye on him just incase something was wrong. All the times Mycroft had been there for him. For everything from getting lost in the dark world of drugs to helping him recover from a cold, Mycroft was always there when Sherlock needed him and it was about time he returned the favour. Besides, he enjoyed the company of his brother very much.

"I think it's about time we leave, I fear if I eat anymore the taxi will no longer be able to carry me home, at any rate I think they'll charge the price of two people for me now." Mycroft joked. He'd always talked a little more freely when he'd had alcohol. Getting drunk was a very different story but having a bit left him aware of his actions but a bit less cooped up. "Yeah, me too. I knew I shouldn't have had that last crumble but it just looked so good." John said with a smile, gathering his stuff and taking out his wallet. "What about you, Sherlock? You hardly ate a thing. Though for once you actually had enough to function on. And you had two courses and almost finished both!" John said to his friend. Sherlock nodded "Yes, I am rather stuffed myself. That's far more than I am used to eating. I shall better not make a habit of it or it'll be very inconveniencing when I'm on cases."

The waitress came and gave them the bill, it came to £22.75 in total, for all three of their meals and drinks. John whistled at the bargain "If only all meals were like that. He pulled out a twenty and ten pound note, handing it to the waitress who thanked him and went to put the money into the system. Mycroft protested "Dr Watson, you should really not pay for us all, here I'll split it with you. If anything I should be paying for it all, I've got plenty of money to spare." He said, trying to hand him the money. John waved him off "Nonsense, you're our guest tonight, Mycroft, I couldn't let you pay. Besides, it's my treat tonight." Knowing he would not be able to change the man's mind Mycroft smiled "Thank you, Dr Watson, that is very kind of you. I hope to be able to repay you some day." John shook his head "That's okay. Shall we go?" He left the remainder of the change as a tip, causing the waitress to blush and kindly decline before he insisted and she thanked him.

"Alright, where are the cabs? Rosie's babysitter only works until ten thirty, we should be safe but I don't want to be late." John said, walking along the street in search of a cab. At the statement Mycroft remembered that things were not like they had been before the fall, back when everything had been considerably better for all of them. Mycroft wasn't the only one who would be going home to a lonely house tonight.

Sherlock and Mycroft parted ways with John as he got a taxi in a different direction to them with the promise to Sherlock that he would be taking three hours at lunch time to spend with him, after Greg Lestrade's shift. Mycroft did not miss the look of loneliness and shame that passed over his brother's face, no doubt he was thinking about the way all his friends seemed to only spend time with him as a chore rather than for fun nowadays, they were all busy with their own lives. The ride was silent and Mycroft contemplated once again over the fact that caring was not an advantage.


	11. Urgency fuelled decision

Sherlock watched his brother. He had the strong urge to invite Mycroft to stay the night. Since everything that had happened he felt himself craving the company of the people he cared about. John was great completely great but sometimes Sherlock wanted someone who was clearly his superior, someone greater than him in every way who knew him and cared about him and could understand him when no one else could. He wanted and needed Mycroft right now and he knew Mycroft needed him. But even asking Mycroft to dinner had been riskily out of character. He didn't want to scare Mycroft off, he wasn't very used to being social.

"Mycroft, would you want to…?" Sherlock cut off, deciding against asking half way through talking. It's not like Mycroft would say yes to staying over anyway. "Yes, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, looking up in surprise. Sherlock's blush would not have been noticeable by the majority of people and he hoped that included his brother "Oh, um… I was saying do you want to take the cab to your house or have you already got transport arranged?" He lied.

Mycroft pursed his lips. He knew that he should walk home and it would start making up for the fat he'd gained over the night but he felt so heavy. He was completely stuffed and walking made him feel breathless and drowsy. "Thank you, yes I think I shall take the cab." He affirmed. "Well, goodbye, brother mine." Mycroft smiled at Sherlock as the younger climbed from the car. "Goodbye, Mycroft. I hope to see you soon." Sherlock said as the car departed. It was a lot easier to be earnestly caring to his brother when he'd be gone before he could respond. Sherlock shook his head and unlocked his door, walking up stairs up into the lonely darkness of his empty flat.

Mycroft sat, curled in the back seat of the cab. It had been a while since he had taken public transport and, after getting over his initial paranoia, it was a pleasant experience. Sherlock's parting words haunted him. What compelled him to say that? It sounded like sentiment.

Although Sherlock most definitely did care about people Mycroft was not under the delusion that he was one of them. He was not foolish enough to think that just because his brother did not want to shoot him in the head it meant he particularly liked him, it just meant that he didn't want to be responsible for his death. But not for one second had Sherlock considered shooting John instead. Of course he hadn't, Mycroft had not expected him to and would honestly be horrified if he had. John was Sherlock's best friend, his purpose in life, his reason for living and his only joy. Mycroft was just the man he was unfortunate enough to have shared a roof with for several years.

Sherlock had never expressed any fondness of his older brother before, he just grinned and bared Mycroft's presence with some protests until it was possible to kick Mycroft out. Where this sudden bombardment of socialising had come from Mycroft did not know. Of course by some other family's standards it was not a 'bombardment' but for those two brothers it was. Not unpleasant in Mycroft's opinion, in fact the complete opposite he enjoyed Sherlock's company more than anyone else, just surprising.

Mycroft felt a glowing hope within him that he might be able to spend some more time with a willing Sherlock now. He did not let the idea form because he knew it would only end in disappointment. Sherlock was a nice person but he could scarcely have the tolerance to put up with his brother's presence. He had probably invited Mycroft to dinner this evening as a salute to the fact that Mycroft had been prepared to sacrifice himself for John's sake. The 'I hope to see you soon' was probably just polite departing words. Mycroft nodded to himself, the explanation making sense, though he couldn't help the disappointed feeling inside him.

Arriving at his house, Mycroft payed the driver, an odd feeling as he was so used to simply walking away. He unlocked the door, an intense feeling of loneliness and discontentment filled him. Spending an evening with Sherlock and John had showed him what exactly it was he was missing out on. Mycroft shook his head violently. He had JUST decided he should stop trying to care and stop being close to people when he didn't understand what was right or wrong to do.

Mycroft scowled to himself, walking straight to his bedroom, no way he would let himself eat any more. He was already disgustingly full of fatty, salty, sugary food and he would already have to work very hard to burn all the fat that was going to form. People would laugh at him, his colleagues would not take him seriously and Sherlock would tease him like he always did. He could feel the food heavy inside his stomach, slowly seeping into his body, the awful substances absorbing into him and becoming part of him. The thought made him sick.

Mycroft couldn't go to bed, not yet . If he did then the food digest over night, fats storing away instead of burning and he would be so fat. Why the hell had he eaten so much? He couldn't blame the fact that he had been out or that most of it had come free. Sherlock barely touched his main and had half of a dessert and he was complaining he had over eaten. Why hadn't Mycroft eaten just one meal? What the hell was wrong with him? He did not have to be so greedy. He had a starter, main and several desserts as well as cake and alcohol. Why hadn't he just eaten a main? Or maybe a starter and dessert? But no, he'd had a whole load, and he could feel all of the disgusting junk inside him, becoming a part of him.

He had to stop it. He had to get it out. Mycroft chucked his coat and waist coat to the side, walking to his gym. He found the treadmill and started it up, beginning a jog. He was soon out of breath and working hard yet it was only a slow jog. Sherlock would be walking at this pace, barely even a warm up. He would be able to keep up a way faster speed for ages. And yet here Mycroft was sweating and panting as he jogged clumsily as if he'd been running for his life for miles. If he was ever doing field work and he had to run away, which was almost compulsory to happen, he would be captured in no time and then tortured for information.

He could jog all he wanted, it didn't change the fact that he had been set back an age by eating all that food. Now he would have to work hard just to get back to the point he had been only that morning. It was ridiculous. Just an hour at a restaurant and he'd destroyed everything he'd been working for. And the worst part was that he hadn't digested it yet, the food was still sitting heavily inside his stomach, mocking him. It hadn't yet gone into his blood stream but there was nothing he could do to get rid of it. No 'back space' he could press to undo all the food he had eaten.

But then there was. But he couldn't possibly do THAT. It was a horrible, wrong thing to do that went against the natural flow of the human body. But then, digesting that much food went against what the human body was supposed to handle too. All of those artificial flavours and chemicals, it was like vandalising his body. But then he could not do that. Because he was a high class, rich and respected business man. They didn't do that. But they also weren't fat. Doing that thing would damage his body, it would not be pleasant at all and everyone would judge him and hate him.

He could imagine the fatty, sugary substances being absorbed into his bloodstream every second he wasted, a sense of urgency filing him.

Mycroft ran to the bathroom, he could worry and fret about this later, now he had to act. He quickly knelt in front of the toilet, seat lifted and stuck his fingers down his throat.


	12. What's hidden

It was not a pleasant experience. Of course it wasn't, throwing up was the unwilling convulsions of the digestive system to dispense some substances unwanted by the human body. It had been easy enough for Mycroft to trigger the natural reaction of throwing up, having a very advanced knowledge in the biology of the human body. The problem was getting it to stop. He could feel the acidic liquid rising in his throat, burning his mouth. He could taste the vile mixture of bodily fluids and food. The liquid expelled itself out of his mouth and it was all he could do to keep himself upright and aimed at the toilet bowl.

It felt horrible and completely out of Mycroft's control. Once it had started it wouldn't stop. All of the contents of his stomach escaped his body in a mess of bitter, acidic liquid. He couldn't stop it. It wasn't going to stop. More kept on coming up, the sight and smell of the sick made him gag even more, causing his body to reject even more food. It was a vicious circle that he couldn't stop.

Mycroft felt all of his energy dissipating and he suddenly regretted the fact he had not had a proper rest in a while. Mycroft just grabbed the toilet like it was a life jacket, submitting to the situation and letting everything happen, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was no point in regretting his decision to purge himself of food, he had and there was nothing he could do in the moment to stop it.

And so he gripped the porcelain sides of the toilet until his knuckles turned white, trying to keep himself from completely collapsing on the floor with exhaustion. He tried to numb himself to the burn and the retched taste. It was all for a good reason. It was worth it. This was better for him than if he had let the food digest, there was nothing healthy about heart disease or clogged arteries. No one said it was going to be easy to get healthy and fit again. It was going to be challenging. This was just one of those challenges.

After what could have been minutes or hours it finally stopped. Mycroft gratefully collapsed to the floor. He gasped and panted, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs, every breath burning his raw throat. Mycroft felt fuzzy and light and some surprising positive feeling, it wasn't happiness but it was something along those lines. But most of all he felt tired. Too tired to do anything other than curl up on the floor and fall asleep, sticky with sweat and bile. He didn't know when it was he'd started crying but his cheeks were wet with tears.

Mycroft curled up, his fingers tangled into his hair and his legs pulled tightly up to his chest. He was so tired. The weird high he'd gotten faded giving way to pure exhaustion and misery. Nothing mattered. He didn't remember why he was there, who he was, what brought him to be there. He felt to foggy to think. All he knew was tiredness. The need to sleep. Mycroft's eyes fell closed.

Sherlock sat in his apartment, reclined in the comfort and familiarity of his chair. This was his home. The quaint little apartment at 221B Baker Street. Every inch of the place was filled with memories and the imprints they left behind, possessions, marks, empty space; everything about the whole place made it home. The first place Sherlock had ever truly been able to say that word about and mean it. This was his home. And yet, it felt wrong.

Right now, in the darkness of a flat no one had bothered to turn the lights on in this was not his home. It was just a little apartment, a roof to shelter him from rain and to protect shield him from the cold. It was the memory of a home that had once been his. And each thing inside was a ghost of happy times that Sherlock held close to his heart so desperately yet had taken on a bitter, mournful shade. Because there was one key thing that separated this apartment from every other place he had stayed. One thing that made everything shine like the brightest, most precious treasure, just one. John Watson.

Doctor John Hamish Watson, Sherlock Holmes's best friend. Without him Sherlock was nothing. He had tried so hard to build up a wall of cold, impenetrable indifference but John had came into his life so suddenly, smashing it irretrievably down. He could never go back to heartlessly walking around crime scenes when every moment he would be reminded the amazing feeling of laughing indecently at the side of a body after a inappropriately timed joke to lighten the mood. He could not contemplate the information of a case without talking aloud to the ears that used to be there listening, chiding him for being a show off but he could glimpse the amazement in those weary yet sharp but still kind eyes. And he could not pump his veins with cocaine when he could imagine so realistically the sound of his best friends voice telling him not to.

And so Sherlock dropped the syringe back to the floor, running his hands over his face. He couldn't do it. Even though it was just another little fix amongst hundreds. He could not do it in honour of the John who still cared. He knew that was unfair, he knew deep down John did care. But he couldn't help but wonder. He had never really been able to believe that John cared about him, an 'unlovable sociopath'. He didn't think he did enough to deserve to be gifted with someone as amazing as John Watson.

But then now it made sense. It wasn't a gift it was a punishment for every wrong thing he'd done, and he had done many. To have such an amazing person in his life, live with him, be best friends with him, better still be his best friend. Then have to let it all go because of a situation there was no good way out of, and it was only he who could be blamed for being in that situation. 'The reichenbach fall' 'suicide of a fake genius' whatever people decided to call it, everything led back to that. Sherlock had on many occasions wished that he had just killed himself like he was supposed to. His friends had all grieved anyway, and now he couldn't kill himself because that would condemn them to grieve again.

If he had killed himself then John would be married to a beautiful woman with an absolutely stunning baby, living in a house contently with them both. But instead John was sitting in an empty house, probably unable to sleep despite any exhaustion he felt because his dreams were too horrid to face. That beautiful baby would have a mother rather than being juggled between an assortment of strangers' faces.

It was his fault. Completely his fault. So many times had John Watson gone through shit but had managed to start building a life for himself again and every single time Sherlock had wrecked it. Every single damn time. It was his fault and he could not live with that. But he could not kill himself because his friends had already grieved enough for him. He just didn't know what to do. He couldn't even escape this emotional madness because every time he reached for the syringe, filled with the perfect dosage to make him free for a while, he heard John's voice, his best friends voice, telling him not to.

And that made it hurt more than ever because John didn't care about him enough to give a shit when he drugged up. Whether it was that he thought Sherlock was just doing it for attention, as he did many other things, or whether John simply didn't care, it hurt. Sherlock didn't know which hurt more. But both burned so much. Inside his head Sherlock knew that this was ridiculous, John was a grieving man who had just lost his wife, he would be sad and angry and in general emotional turmoil. Now he had been working though that, because it wasn't who he was. Sherlock knew that the John he had been talking to in the restaurant that evening was the real John, he didn't hate Sherlock, he loved him, he was his best friend. And Sherlock could accept that in the moment.

But as soon as he was alone those happy memories distorted and faded, John Watson was a good man, that much could not be unclear to Sherlock no matter what the situation. But good men hated evil ones. And all he could think about was John standing above him, kicking him, punching him. He had never felt more disgusting and evil in his life. He would never, could never, forget the way he had looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. There was no guilt there, no hint that he thought what he was doing was wrong, just anger and emptiness.

Sherlock had spoken, said John had the right to hurt him because he had killed his wife. He had said it with the silent plea that John would counter it, say it wasn't true, comfort him and tell him it wasn't his fault. Say those words that Sherlock desperately needed to hear but no one had said. No one said it because it wasn't true. It was his fault. Completely his fault. He knew that from the moment it had happened, the self hatred stronger than any he had ever felt before. He was more despicable than Culverton Smith, he was more disgusting than Magnessun. He was a monster. Every blow John gave him he deserve. No. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve the kindness. Because every hit had not been enough, the blood spilling from his body to the ground would never be enough. How could John have forgiven him? He didn't even forgive himself.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, pulling his hair. He was starting to regret not inviting Mycroft around. And not just for Mycroft's sake.


	13. John's wake up call

John would be lying if he said that the ringing of the phone had woken him up. He had been wide awake already and that wasn't just because at one AM a certain beautiful, loud princess had decided she would rather like being nocturnal. The nightmares were back. John didn't think that dreams could get any more horrifying than those he'd had after leaving the army but he'd been wrong. Now his dreams were a distorted cascade of war time memories mixed with horrifying crime scenes, corpses put there by men so insane and wrong they were hardly recognisable as human.

But he could deal with the nightmares that made no sense, an unfocused mesh of horrible emotions illustrated with scenes he had seen in one way or another. What was the worst was the realistic dreams. Mary dying right in front of his eyes, her face contoured with betrayal at how he had been cheating rather than helping her deal with the problems of her past. His affair with the girl on the bus getting further, them having sex and Mary finding out and killing herself in grief. Rosie getting hurt, dying because he was too caught up in his own self pity to properly take care of his own daughter. Sherlock jumping off Barts roof. Sherlock killing himself because of all of the horrible things John had said to him. Sherlock dying at the hands of Culverton Smith because John had been too stubborn to realise his friend was in danger

This was getting ridiculous. John was hurting, and he had every right to after all that had happened, but nothing gave him the right to lash out at the people who tried to help him. He was bringing everyone down with him, finding ways that they were responsible for his problems to lessen the burdens he had to carry. So he could turn his grief into rage. He was hurting everyone who came close to him and they did not deserve it. In the best of the moment he would attack, defend himself until it became violent and messy and an outlet for his anger rather than self protection.

Everyone had gone through so much, they all looked a good ten years older, the light gone from their eyes. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly; John had wanted to blame Sherlock. He had blamed Sherlock initially telling himself any stress and strain they were under was because of him. But that was wrong, it was him, John Watson, who was hurting them. He would never forget the look in Molly's eyes as he told her what to say if Sherlock came knocking. He could never forget the pure heartbreak in her face as he had told her to stop coming around, that he wanted nothing to do with that life anymore so she couldn't see Rosie anymore.

And then there was Sherlock. Of all the people for him to hurt why Sherlock? His best friend. The man who had saved him, changed his life. No matter what he said Sherlock was not like Major Shalto or Mary, Sherlock was absolutely unique. He had changed John's life more than anyone ever could. There was no one who he enjoyed the company of more, no one who amazed him so much, no one he trusted so much, no one he would rather entrust his entire life to. And John had practically used him as a punching bag, physically and mentally.

He knew what he did was unforgivable. He had kicked Sherlock when he was down, pushed the man who was already incredibly delicate and unstable even further into a raging, burning mess of grief and self loathing and confusion. He had made Sherlock trust him, Sherlock of all people had opened up his entire being to John despite how hard it was for him to trust people and John had destroyed him bit by bit. He just hoped Sherlock was not behind saving, for most people he would be completely lost but Sherlock Holmes was the damn strongest man he had ever met and if anyone could get up from this it was him. John had had his time of self pity 'woe is me', he had sulked and lashed out but there was no more time for that. He had friends who he had hurt and who needed his help to get through things. He had no time for moaning about his problems he needed to try to fix the damage he had made.

Lost in his thoughts John had almost forgotten about the ringing phone. Luckily he was able to grab it just before the ring stopped.

"Hello?" He asked neutrally, wondering who on Earth if was at this hour. Possibly Mycroft?

"Hello, John. Um… did I wake you? If you were sleeping I can call again later." Sounded Sherlock's voice.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise "Sherlock, hi! No I wasn't sleeping and I don't think I will. Parenting, you know how it is. Did you want something?"

There was a pause on the other side of the line, no doubt Sherlock debating over whether to tell him the complete truth. John frowned, normally Sherlock had no qualm talking about anything, no matter how controversial. That meant this was to do with emotions, more particularly Sherlock's own emotions.

There was a shaky breath let out before Sherlock's voice started up "Yeah, I did. Um… remember when you told me I should get a therapist to talk things through with. And I said I'm not ready. I'm still not but I feel like waiting until I am ready would be far too late. I just… tonight wasn't good. A-and I tried to just fall asleep despite it but I just couldn't, my mind would just not stop and I felt like using again. I didn't don't worry but I d-don't think I can make it through the night without doing something stupid. I don't want to be alone right now. I c-can't… could you…" there was a heavy release of breath "Sorry, never mind. It's nothing. I'm sorry for disturbing you, forget everything I said, I'm half asleep. Good night… or morning depends on how you look at it… anyway, bye."

"No, Sherlock, wait! Don't hang up!" John's heart raced with urgency. He had been so shocked by the sudden outburst of honesty and feeling that he had been stunned into silence. Luckily his friend had not hung up yet.

"Yeah?"

"Look, Sherlock. I'm coming over there, yeah? It was really good of you to call me, really great. You have to tell people when you're not feeling okay. I know you probably think it's selfish or something to say you need help, only you would manage to be so self obsessed and lack self esteem at the same time. I'm your friend, Sherlock, your best friend and I care about you so much, even if I haven't been doing a very good job of showing it lately. I want to help you when you need me, no matter what it's for, or just be there when you want me. So I'm coming around I don't think either of us should be alone these days anyway, no matter how appealing isolation seems I've learnt it's not the answer."

There was a silence on the other side of the line "Okay. Thank you, John. You really don't have to though. Rosie-"

"…is sleeping soundly now. I'm taking her with me, she should just continue to sleep or at least fall back to sleep when we get there. She loves you to bits Sherlock, and the whole apartment. And Mrs Hudson. I'm sure she'd love to look after Rosie for a bit if you and I want to go off and do something to clear our minds. However it goes, I'm coming over there. You have been through a lot, Sherlock. Don't even think that you have to deal with this alone."

"Thank you." Sherlock's breathy whisper was so faint John had almost missed it.

"No problem. I'll start heading over, yeah? Okay see you soon, Sherlock."

With that John hung up. He pulled on some clothes and a coat, packing a bag of Rosie supplies (the infant needed a whole bag of belongings even for the tiniest of excursions). He then lifted his daughter gently into his arms. Then baby stirred slightly, making a soft gurgling noise. John kissed her forehead and hushed her gently as he left the house, looking to hail a taxi.


	14. A much needed hug

Sherlock was collapsed on the floor next to the sofa. He was drumming his fingers rapidly against his thighs in an attempt to keep himself distracted. He didn't know what exactly it was he would do if he was left like this much longer but he knew it was bad. He tried to keep his thoughts neutral, digging his fingers into his legs through the fabric of his pyjama trousers. It was so hard. But he could do it. He'd created a thick, cell door to lock everything out, all of the dark thoughts, the self hatred, were throwing themselves against it. He could feel their presence there but he would not let the thoughts form.

He could do it. He could block them out just a little longer. John was coming. John would save him. John didn't hate him, why would he come all the way across London to help someone he hated? Don't think about what happened on the hospital, think about the phone call. You were just talking to him, that was John's voice. He told you he cared. You can hold on just a little longer, John will be there soon.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth and balling his fists. He couldn't do it. He couldn't keep this up. But he could not let the thoughts in because then he would listen to them and start to believe them and then he'd do something stupid and he would become lost to the world, irretrievably. But after everything that had happened Sherlock had realised that he did not want to die, that every moment was too precious to waste, that he wanted to get better. Because the times when he had been truly happy we're right there, within sight but out of reach. He wanted to get better, and yes he did admit he was not okay, because he wanted that happiness back, those precious moments. He wouldn't lose this fight. He just needed to wait. John would be there soon.

As Sherlock heard the front door swing open a sense of relief filled him. So close. He could do it. He could hear Mrs Hudson emerging from her flat, it was surprising she was still awake. Or maybe she had woken early. What time was it anyway? John spoke in quick hushed tones to her before his footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs. His steps were heavy and rushed, he was running up the steps two at a time.

It occurred to Sherlock that he must look a mess collapsed on the floor like that. He quickly got up, pulling his violin from where it stood and sat on his chair. Moments later john came through the door.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" He asked in a hushed tone, and for a moment Sherlock could pretend that it was all those years ago back when John still liked him. He made half a motion of a shake of his head, then the beginning of a nod before letting out a heavy sigh and shrugging. He honestly didn't know anymore. John gave him a smile, taking the violin from his shaking hands and placing it on the table. He then took Sherlock's hands, rubbing them gently "It's okay, Sherlock. Well, actually it's not. But it's going to be. I will make sure everything is okay again. You've done so much to protect me, Sherlock, now I am going to protect you."

John sat in his chair across from Sherlock, taking in his friend's appearance. He had been completely fine earlier, at dinner. But then, none of them were really fine. It was like that. They could be laughing and chatting one moment but the moment they were left on their own the darkness would close in. He cursed himself for not staying with Sherlock. But how was he to know? He'd have thought the man would want some space since everyone was taking shifts to monitor him.

But none of that mattered. Right now he needed to comfort his best friend. He had never in all his time knowing Sherlock seen the man like this. He had seen him upset before of course but Sherlock just didn't do this. It was quite alarming his silent suffering habit but this was much worse. Because it showed that Sherlock was in so much pain that he could not keep it inside anymore and he could not deal with it on his own.

Sherlock would probably be incredibly embarrassed as soon as he was in his regular state of mind but that didn't matter. He needed John. And John had neglected his friend far too many times when he needed him recently. Never again.

"You've been crying." John stated, wiping tears from Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock looked mildly confused through the other emotions "I have?" He murmured quietly. John just pulled him into a hug, holding him tightly. Trying to show Sherlock through actions that he would always be there, that he knew he had made too many mistakes but that he would not do it again.

He was the man that Mary and Sherlock thought he was. It's just that he had not been himself in quite some time. He was as kind, selfless, loyal, devoted, caring and all the other shit as they seemed to think he was. But he hadn't been recently. And he hated that. He wanted to be the man he knew he was, the man all his friends knew he really was, and he was going to be John Watson again.

The hug shifted slowly as their bodies got tired, eventually Sherlock was curled up on John's lap, his arms wrapped around his friend's waist with his face buried in the crook of John's neck. He had fallen asleep, which was a good thing too, John had no idea when Sherlock had last slept but from the bags under his eyes it had been a while. John's shirt felt damp with Sherlock's tears but he didn't mind. His heart ached for his friend, the amazing, brilliant man, and everything he had been put through to make him like this. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and rubbed his back, hoping to help ward of nightmares. He knew both men would be awkward and embarrassed in the morning but that was a problem for another time. Right now this was perfectly right because, honestly, after all they had been through John Watson and Sherlock Holmes bloody well deserved a hug.

When Mycroft woke up he was not greeted to the most pleasant of sensations. His body ached from falling asleep on the floor once again. His hole mouth felt raw and painful, his teeth fuzzy. The smell and taste of sick was everywhere, he could not escape it. The reek made Mycroft feel like throwing up again and he did gag but there was nothing left for him to throw up.

It had definitely not been good of him to fall asleep instead of cleaning up. The acidic vomit had been working away at his teeth and mouth for goodness knows how long, the bacteria would have been growing everywhere around the room, swarming his sleeping form. But he had been so tired. With a disgusted grunt Mycroft heaved himself off the floor. This was going to take quite some work.

A while later Mycroft had finally finished. He had cleaned and disinfected the floor and toilet, sprayed the air with a considerable amount of deodorant and left the door open to air the room out. He had cleaned his teeth very thoroughly, chewing gum to rid himself off the taste and clean his mouth a bit more, he found a bit of comfort in the fact it was sugar free gum but it did make him wonder what exactly was inside the gum, it could not be healthy. He had treated his teeth, mouth and throat to a generous amount of chemicals that would effectively counter the effects of exposure to strong acid and noted to himself to keep the substances with him so he could put them on directly afterwards next time.

Next time? Mycroft wasn't quite sure when exactly he had started thinking about repeating the action so matter-of-factly. But now that he had everything cleaned up and his clothes changed and he was sitting curled up on his sofa the thrill of it struck him. He felt like a knight who had just slayed a dragon. It was amazing, he was finally starting to get the control over his diet that he needed and finally taking this step successfully was a wonderful feeling.

In the back of Mycroft's mind a voice was screaming. Begging him to stop. Shouting at the top of its voice, completely terrified and lost. But Mycroft ignored it, in fact he could barely even hear it. Because after all, it was a lot easier to feel the satisfaction and pride.


	15. It's not your fault

John woke up stiff and cramped yet feeling more rested than he had done for quite some time. He blinked at his surroundings trying to work out where he was, there was a heavy but comfortable weight on his chest. He looked down and saw a messy bush of dark curls, two pale fists clutching onto his shirt and the familiar blue fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown. The events of the previous night, or more specifically sadly this morning, came back to him and he pulled the man lying on his chest a bit closer.

It still haunted him how hurt and lost Sherlock had looked. In his friends eyes he had seen uncertainty and despair, words he had never associated Sherlock with. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's ruffled hair. This was his fault. It was not only his fault of course but he hadn't exactly helped matters. John could not help but feel the crushing weight of the guilt that he had contributed in making the great, brilliant, self assured Sherlock Holmes broken and lost. He would help him, no matter how long it took or how impossible it seemed he would save Sherlock. Sherlock himself had been prepared to sacrifice his health and his life in general to save John, he would bloody well return the favour. And he couldn't do that so far away from 221B.

There was a shuffling noise and the door opened revealing Mrs Hudson holding a tray of tea and biscuits. She took in the sight with a look that clearly said 'not gay, my bins!' "Oh, hello, love. I didn't know if you'd be awake yet, the both of you had a late time." She placed the tray on the table "I'm not your housekeeper but it is a special occasion today. He's missed you dreadfully, you know." A stab of guilt sparked in John's chest.

"Yeah I've been an arse hole. Both of us need not to be alone right now. I um… do you think it'd be okay if I... you know. Maybe moved back in?" John asked, fearful of being rejected after so long of shunning the pair. To his relief Mrs Hudson's face lit up "Oh, thank goodness! Of course you can! John Watson and Sherlock Holmes back at Baker Street again, it's a miracle! I do worry about him so much, when you aren't around he gets terribly withdrawn and sullen, nothing cheers him up, he doesn't even get that smile when there's a mass murder. And I worry about you, dear, so far away in that house all alone with a baby to look after, in your state. I think it'll be great for the both of you. By the way Rosie is sleeping soundly in my apartment, I'll take care of her whenever you need it, love, I don't like the idea of her being passed around baby sitters, it's healthy for a child to see a little amount of faces constantly so they can get to know them."

John smiled "Thanks, Mrs Hudson. But…" a thought crossed his mind that made the hope that had started to form disappear "…do you think Sherlock would… want me back?" Mrs Hudson was silent for a moment and anxiety built inside John. The doubt was broken as Mrs Hudson burst into laughter "Of course he would want you back! He's been wishing for the day to come ever since you left! He keeps your room clean, you know, cleaner than anywhere else in this whole place. It gets slightly manic at times, what with his OCD. After so long he still talks to you that's not there. That balloon you drew on, he talks to that too. Re-fills the helium when it starts to go down. I think he might actually cry if it breaks. He doesn't just want you back, John, he needs you."

The pair both stopped talking as Sherlock stirred. "I'll be off, give you two a moment." Mrs Hudson whispered before departing. "John?" Sherlock's voice was raspy from him having just woken up. "Yeah, it's me. How're you feeling?" He asked, looking over Sherlock's body with assessing eyes. "Shit." The detective answered simply, rubbing his palms over his eyes then blinking several times. He looked around again and became aware of his position. A light blush reaching his cheeks, Sherlock climbed off john and say in his chair "Sorry." John watched, half amused half embarrassed "Not at all, mate."

An awkward silence followed where Sherlock would not meet his gaze. John sighed and started talking "Listen, I know I've said it before but I'm very glad you called me. When you need help I really want to know, I don't want you suffering on your own. You can't deal with everything by yourself Sherlock, and even if you can that doesn't mean you should. And I'm always here to help you. Please know that. I am here for you, always, no matter what. I've been a complete arse lately and even though I don't expect you to forgive me let me say I am so, so sorry. I was grieving and angry, no not at you just at everything and myself. I took my anger out on you, tried to blame you for things I knew I was responsible for because the guilt was too much. You took it all without complaint and I hope you know that it wasn't your fault, none of it. Please remember that, please. Every single one of that can find reasons why they are to blame but at the end of the day we would never have pulled the trigger on Mary so it was not any of our fault. Okay, Sherlock? Do you understand? Look at me and say you know that."

John looked pleadingly at Sherlock, hoping with all of his might that Sherlock would listen. He knew Sherlock blamed himself and he could not let that continue because it was most definitely not the man's fault in the slightest. Slowly Sherlock looked up, looked into John's eyes and it made John feel like crying to see the pain in those beautiful blue orbs. "I-I… I understand the concept and will probably one day be able to have it as my view on the situation." John nodded "Okay, that's good. I'm here for you now, Sherlock, and I am here to stay. I've wasted enough time sulking and moaning about every bloody problem I have but enough is enough. I've almost lost you so many times and it's made me realise that you are the one person out of everyone I cannot let myself lose. It isn't your fault and I hate that you have to bear the guilt of feeling like it is but I will make you see it's not. I will make sure it stops hurting because you do not deserve to hurt."

Sherlock nodded and for a moment John thought he was going to cry, hell, he felt like crying too. But the man just took a deep breath and smiled "Thank you, John. Thank you so much."


	16. Blacking out

It was hard. Really hard, trying to resist the temptation of food. Far too hard when he was just sitting there alone at home. Three days had gone since he had purged himself, he had not done so again because he hadn't eaten anything. His 'diet' consisted of tea and cigarettes. Mycroft found that if he made the tea really hot he could feel it burning down his throat and for a little while the burning liquid would counter the burning hunger in his stomach. Every single time he felt that he could no longer bear it he would smoke another cigarette, his body's cravings would be extinguished for a while.

Mycroft was considerably surprised and proud that he had made it this far. He'd thought he would cave at the first sight of food but he hadn't had a bite to eat in days, he could feel his stomach burning and it felt good. It felt like something was happening, like he was getting thinner, fitter, healthier, it felt amazing. He had not shown up to work for a couple days, it was early stages and he didn't think any exposure to other people eating would be good.

But rather than getting easier now, after a couple days practice, it was getting even harder. He lay sprawled across his sofa, drumming his fingers rapidly against his thighs. With nothing to do, no distractions, he was forced to think about his hunger, focus on it. He was so hungry. He missed food, the amazing quenching feeling it brought. He missed the taste and the texture and how he would feel full afterwards instead of feeling like there was a fire inside him. But that also made him feel so gross. What type of person was so obsessed with food that they missed it like this? That they wanted the texture and the taste back? It was disgusting, he was disgusting.

But that didn't change the fact that he would die without food. Mycroft sneered at himself, he got lucky. It just so happened that his disgusting obsession was something that humans needed to survive. But he could not use that as an excuse to indulge in whatever food he wanted whenever.

It was, Mycroft decided, time to leave his house. Otherwise his absence would start to attract attention. He would maybe pop into his office later on that evening for an hour, just so that people would not start making inquiries as to his whereabouts and wellbeing. But he really had no desire to do any work, working was boring, and paperwork was the dreariest of them all. Mycroft looked at the clock, it was a little into noon. He really did need food, as much as he hated to admit it. Even Sherlock ate food, considerably more often when Doctor Watson was there encouraging him too.

Mycroft made up his mind, he would walk for some large distance until he felt that he had exercised to the highest of his ability. He would then find something to eat wherever it was that he ended up. He could stay around in that area until five then he would walk to his work and see what he could do. Mycroft nodded to himself, satisfied with the plan. But if he was going leave the house he would have to clean himself up a bit. With a sigh, Mycroft heaved himself off the sofa and went to have a shower and change.

Clean, changed and shaved, Mycroft was ready to face society again without being judged. He was dressed more relaxed than normal, but it was still a lot more up-dressed than most people were used to wearing when they were not intending to go to work. He wore a black blazer and trousers that had dark blue stripes traveling along the fabric vertically. He was not wearing a waist coat or tie and rather than a smart white shirt, of which he normally favoured, he wore a black one, leaving the top two buttons undone. He really did not feel up to his 'keeping-up-the-appearances' look today. He hoped that he did not happen across Sherlock or John Watson, the pair would surely pick up that something was off. He looked himself over in the mirror, even though it wasn't what he normally wore he did look good, and considerably smarter than most anyway. Deciding his attire was acceptable, Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and set off.

By Mycroft's reckon he had been walking for just past two hours before he could take no more. He felt considerably light headed and his limbs could not decide over whether they were incredibly heavy or foatily light. He cursed himself silently for being so weak, since when had he not been able to walk for over two hours? Why today did he feel so exhausted? Whatever the reason was, he needed to get food now.

Mycroft looked around himself. He was in a park, a rather pretty one too, one of the many in London. It didn't give him any hint as to where he was, he had just walked at random, knowing that when he wanted to get home he would easily be able to work out the way. Normally Mycroft would be able to tell exactly where he was without effort but today he was feeling very off. Was his mind giving up on him as well as his body? Mycroft shivered at the idea. No, that wasn't it, he was just having a bad day. Middle age probably, curse mortal restraints.

Mycroft stumbled around the park in search of a food place, it didn't take him long to find one, stalls like that were always strategically placed whether consciously or subconsciously taking into consideration the popular areas, scenery and density of people. It was a coffee shop outside the gates of the park, next to a road.

Mycroft started walking towards it when a spell of dizziness overcame him. He stumbled slightly, catching himself. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head. That had never happened to him before. Well, not without reason. Working in the government (or as the government) meant he had his fair share of dangerous fieldwork and injuries. But he was perfectly alright now and yet he was finding it hard to focus on his surroundings.

Mycroft took another deep breath, holding his abdomen slightly and he took a few steps forward hoping the dizziness would wear off if he just got on as normal. He felt a stabbing pain in his head to match the one in his abdomen and the world around him faded to black. Mycroft let out a cry and braced himself for the impact of hitting the ground but it never came. Calloused but gentle hands holding him firmly was the last thing Mycroft felt before unconsciousness took him.


	17. Tea and coffee in the park

Greg Lestrade was walking though a park, a chunky black coat pulled firmly around him and his hands pushed into his pockets, more out of habit than for warmth.. It was a particularly unnotable day, the sky was a very neutral grey, clouds too dense to let sunlight through but not thick enough to make a moody atmosphere. In fact the afternoon on a whole was so uncomplimentable that it's dreariness in it's self was to be congratulated.

Greg didn't know why exactly he had bothered to leave his office. They were at a point in the case they were working on that they were very close to completing it but they had done absolutely everything they could do without specific information being retrieved, which it was in the process of happening, he had done all the paperwork he could, gotten every ounce of information out of witnesses and scoured the area for forensics and now all he could do was wait. Rather than waiting inside his office he had decided to leave for a bit of fresh air. He was now doubting the gain in that decision. But despite the admirability of the day, or lack of, Greg decided he would make his little escapade worth it and grab some coffee.

He was strolling at an average pace, not seeing the need to walk fast when he didn't have any particular desire to be where he was going yet the pace he was at made him feel like he was walking on a treadmill, on his way to the coffee shop when he saw him. Mycroft Holmes was the last man he expected to spot somewhere as mundane as a coffee shop or park. Greg frowned, was something going on here? It was unfortunate, Greg thought to himself, that the Holmes brothers had become like an omen of death rather than angels salvaging knowledge from ruins, which is what they really were. It's not that they attracted the danger (on the most part at least) it's that danger attracts them. So he felt slightly guilty about the thought. Why couldn't Mycroft go to a coffee shop after a walk in the park? He had as much a right to as anyone.

He was about to call a greeting to the man when he noticed something was wrong. Mycroft, who's walk was usually a brisk and sure stride, was stumbling in a wavy line. With a frown Greg sped up his pace to a quick walk. He noticed, to his alarm, the man go ridged, a hand holding his abdomen as if he was in pain. Greg broke into a run, luckily he had since as he closed in the last metre he saw Mycroft's eyes roll back and was able to react quick enough to grab the man around the waist before he fell.

A concerned crowd had gathered around the pair. "It's okay, people, nothing to see here." He flashed his badge "New Scotland Yard, I can handle this. Go on, off you go. That's it, he's in good hands." With a bit of ushering Greg managed to get the crowd to dissipate. He looked down at Mycroft's limp form and sighed. How he got himself into these situations he still did not know. It was certainly a weird, awkward feeling to be holding Mycroft Holmes in his arms. The government official who was the most powerful and dangerous man in the country, the man so perfect he seemed unreal and Greg, just an average police detective, was all that was stopping him from falling to the floor. If it was anyone else he might have found the situation amusing but with Mycroft it was terrifying, terrifying to have Mycroft so vulnerable and at his mercy none the less! If Mycroft could be this vulnerable then anyone could.

Nevertheless Greg liked to think that the man was in safe hands. With another sigh and shake of his head at the peculiarity of the circumstance, he carried Mycroft into the shelter of the park.

Mycroft woke up feeling very disorientated. He was pretty sure he was not in his bedroom though. It didn't take long for the events to flood back to him. Mycroft groaned, oh gosh, how had he let that happen to himself? Who had seen? Then a thought made him frown, who had caught him? He tried to get up but a stabbing pain shot through his body that made him gasp and fall back to his lying position. His movements seemed to notify someone that he was there.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?" The voice was male, deep and rough in a pleasant way. But what caught Mycroft's attention more than the level of appreciation he held towards the voice's tonal features was the fact that he knew exactly who it belonged to. "G-" the sound came out husky and shaky. Mycroft cleared his throat, coughing several times "Gregory Lestrade?" He said, disbelievingly. "Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?" Greg said in a gentle tone, not knowing how well Mycroft was doing.

Mycroft scowled and swung himself round to an upright position, wincing at the dizziness and pain that overcame him. Greg put an arm behind him, trying to steady the man, but Mycroft brushed it off. "Who sent you? Was it my brother? Tell him I can handle myself perfectly fine!" Mycroft snapped, brushing himself off.

Greg just rolled his eyes, used to Sherlock's similar stubborn strops "Mycroft, one: no your brother didn't send me, this is the coffee shop I always visit when I'm at work. Two: you're bloody lucky it is or you would have cracked your head against the concrete. Look after yourself my arse. And you still haven't answered my question, how are you feeling? I just found you in the middle of the street about to pass out, I think I have the right to be concerned."

Mycroft nodded and ran his palms over his eyes "Right. Sorry, Detective Inspector, I am not in my best state of mind right now. Thank you for saving me. I have not slept or eaten much, you know how work is when you have something pressing. I was on my way to get something to eat, mustn't have been soon enough since as you know I ended up passing out before I got there. I am feeling okay all things considered, considerably better than if I had fallen to the ground, thank you again. A bit tired and dizzy, I should better go and get something to eat and drink."

"No need." Greg said "Do you want tea or coffee? Coffee would help give you some energy but tea would help sooth the pain." Mycroft considered "Coffee, please, I just had tea before leaving my home." Greg nodded and handed Mycroft a paper cup of coffee, taking the tea himself. He offered Mycroft milk and sugar but the man declined. He then handed Mycroft a take away box of an assortment of sweet and savoury snacks as well as sandwiches. At Mycroft's questioning look Greg shrugged "I figured your passing out might be to do with not having enough to eat. Thought I'd buy something but I didn't know what you liked or how hungry you were."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector, that was very kind and thoughtful of you." Mycroft said, feeling considerably flustered, too mentally unprepared at the moment to be able to properly process kindness. "Please, call me Greg. 'Detective inspector' is too formal, besides I'm not on duty right now anyway." Mycroft felt considerably out of his element, he found it hard to deal with kindness and caring and honesty at the best of times but for some reason it was catching him more off guard now than it normally did.

"Um, okay, Gregory… you can call me Mycroft obviously. Some people call me Myc but it's kind of annoying. Though I won't stop you if you'd prefer that, of course, Mycroft is a mouthful." Greg nodded in understanding "I'm not calling you something you find annoying. Is 'My' okay with you? Your normal name is amazing too, though, of course. I was just wondering if you minded being called that." Mycroft felt his heart do a weird thing he did not recognise when Greg called him that "No that doesn't bother me. I must admit no one has ever called me that before… but feel free to if you would prefer it." Greg gave him a grin that made his heart do the thing again "Okay, then, My it is." Mycroft's cheeks heated slightly. He had definitely not intended any of this when he had left his house that morning.


	18. Appreciating nature

"So what were you doing in this part of town? Not that it's any of my business, but it's not really the best place. Just average sorts, less than average in a lot of cases, not…" He looked Mycroft over "Ya know." Mycroft cocked his head to the side "What do you mean?" Greg blushed slightly "Well, it's not just flattery saying you're a lot higher than anyone around these parts, you're the British government! What'd make you come here? It's just an average sort of place filled with average sorts of people, you could be anywhere you liked."

Mycroft shrugged, looking at the surroundings "Honestly I did not intend to come here, I felt like a walk and my feet took me where they wished. But I'm glad I came here. I'd much rather see a scrawny hazel nut tree than a blooming rose bush, chemically treated and nourished from a sapling to exploit its looks to the best of its potential." Greg looked at him like he was crazy "Why?" Mycroft pursed his lips and responded "Nature. It's a beautiful thing. It's everywhere yet people seem so blind to it. And even when people notice it everyone is so obsessed because a tree isn't as tall as it could have been because of pollution or a lily isn't pretty enough because a caterpillar ate a hole in its petals. It's like we have become blind to nature. Have we as human beings become so unnatural we can't even acknowledge nature anymore?"

Mycroft stood up walking closer to the vegetation that surrounded the pair. "For example, look at this log. A dead tree and yet it's still teaming with life. See how the moss grows on the surface, taking advantage of the storage of water that collects in the bark after rain. There is fungi growing on the inside, sheltered. Damp from the same water the moss grows from is mixing with nutrients from the bark to help provide for the growth. And see here there are faint scratch marks on the wood where a squirrel has taken refuge from the rain. Is this not nature? Even the death of a tree, one hundred and seventy two years old at its death by the looks of it, brings life to so many other things. And yet a passer by would moan in disgust at the fungi or shake their head in dismay that someone cut down a tree."

Mycroft looked up and realised that Greg was staring at him. He looked down, shifting from foot to foot in embarrassment. He cursed himself viciously, why did he have to go on a rant about bloody plants? Greg had actually been showing him kindness and now Mycroft had chased another person away like he did with everything. Mycroft dug his nails into his palm, angry at himself.

"That was bloody amazing." Mycroft looked up in confusion, had he imagined the words? Greg stood up and walked to stand next to Mycroft, watching the nature unfold around them "I've never once looked at things like that. Your mind belongs amongst all of these." Greg gestured to the plants and animals "Absolutely uncomprehendingly outstanding, beautiful beyond the ability of any human to try to imitate and hardly anyone even has the mental capacity to be able to admire it because that'd involve being able to undergrads it."

Mycroft blushed brightly, glad Greg seemed to be watching the scenery hungrily with a new found inspiration over it all so he didn't notice his embarrassment. "Thank you, Gregory, you are honestly too kind. I have been told on many occasions that my brain is more of the likes of a computer or shard of ice." Greg tore his gaze from the nature to look at the taller man "You don't honestly believe them do you?" Mycroft's silence and the look on his face gave Greg the answer to that. The silver haired man sighed "Mycroft, people who say that are just too stupid to be able to accept the extent of your mental capability. You come across the mentality often enough in crime, people find something too remarkable to fit into their expectations and they want to lash out at it. Don't believe a word of it, you are far more amazing than all the nature here combined." Greg said seriously, looking into the younger man's eyes. Had someone told him this morning that he would be having this conversation later that day he would have laughed at them, but he could not see Mycroft taking in people's inadequate views of himself like they were facts, something just snapped inside him when he saw it.

Mycroft couldn't find any words and just nodded, looking down as if he was analysing the grass. "So what about you, Gregory?" He asked after regaining the ability to compose speech. "Hm?" The detective asked. "You, what brought you here today?" Mycroft asked, sipping his coffee. "Well." The detective started in a lofty tone "The case I'm working on is at a standstill. Surely if your brother was working with us it'd be solved already but I do need to do a thing or two myself if I want to have a job to pay the rent with. We've got it all figured out, just need a final bit of evidence, which is being thought in this evening. Nothing else I can do back at the office so I thought I'd get a bit of fresh air."

Mycroft nodded, moving to sit on a large root from an oak tree, Greg came to sit beside him. "So what is this place?" Mycroft asked "I know it's in the park but it doesn't look public, it's concealed and not a single person has walked past since I woke." Greg smiled slightly "Yeah, this is a police zone. Well, not police in particular, any emergency service that requires the use but it's mainly for police. But like if there was an accident in the park, any people injured could be brought in here away from the public until an ambulance arrives. That type of thing. Strictly speaking I'm not supposed to bring people in here, but then you did pass out so it kind of counts. And track it back you probably own this place." Mycroft leant back against the tree trunk "It's a beautiful spot." Greg smiled "Yeah, I suppose it is."

"You haven't eaten much." Greg observed, seeing Mycroft had only eaten a savoury croissant and a tea cake. Mycroft looked down at the food "Yeah. I guess I'm not very hungry." He replied shortly. Greg hummed "Well, as an official figure and your temporary carer I suggest you eat that sandwich and cake." Mycroft couldn't help but smile despite the serious line of conversation Greg managed to lace it with warm heartedness. "I've eaten quite enough. And since where you my 'temporary carer'?"

"Since I found you passing out. Technically I should have called an ambulance. You aren't a family member so I don't have any responsibility over you. You passed out and I had no idea why, it could have been anything from overwork to an infectious disease. But since I am in an official position and I do know you and I was fairly sure it wasn't anything to serious that caused you to pass out I decided to take you here. But that means you are under my care, my responsibility, until you are well again. You said it yourself you passed out from food deprivation. That is not enough to make you recover, I'm making sure you're healthy before I let you out of my sight because I made it my problem by not calling medical help for you. So eat the damn sandwich, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded and took the sandwich, his heart pounding at the smile Greg had when he took a bite. It seemed to make Greg happy rather than disgust him, and he didn't want to upset Greg, he had payed for the food after all, so just a little more should be okay?


	19. Coats and phone numbers

"I feel absolutely stuffed." Mycroft remarked, leaning against the trunk of the oak tree. Greg chuckled "How? You hardly ate anything compared to me." Mycroft blushed, trying to scowl indignantly "I did not!" Despite himself he felt happy. There was still a nagging darkness at the back of his mind but he could ignore it. This was pleasant, nice even, something he had t had the privilege of enjoying in a while. "So you do smile." Greg said with a fake shocked expression. Mycroft blushed and punched him lightly "Of course not, what gave you that idea?" He said, putting on an emotionless mask. Greg pouted slightly "It's a shame. Your smile looked stunningly beautiful, I just have just been hallucinating then." Mycroft blushed and smiled softly "Well hallucination me would probably say thank you."

Greg looked up as a drop of water hit his face, falling between the leaves above him. "When did it get so dark and rainy?" He asked, observing the grey-black clouds and the light rain that was steadily getting heavier. Mycroft looked up "Must've been about half an hour ago judging from the wind speed, cloud density and distribution as well as the moisture of the ground." Greg looked at his watch "Shit, I've got to get back to the office, unfortunately. Got a tone of paperwork I have to do now that evidence should have been collected." Mycroft nodded "I had intended to pop into work today but I don't really see the point, I haven't got anything to do there. I shall probably go home." Greg smiled up at him "This afternoon has been really great. I hardly felt the time pass at all!" Mycroft smiled "Me neither, it was most enjoyable."

"So how are you getting home? Cab? Or have you got a lift?" Greg asked, standing up and brushing dirt off his trousers. "No, I will walk, that's how I get here." Mycroft replied. Greg pursed his lips "I don't think that's the best idea, My, what if you collapsed on the way home? You're not at your fullest strength right now, you could hurt yourself and you'd be on your own with no one to help you." Greg stated, worry thick in his voice.

Mycroft squirmed slightly, not used to this care "I'll be alright, Gregory, I wouldn't have collapsed if I had eaten before leaving home but I am fully supplied now, there is no need for you to worry." Greg smiled softly "I will worry about you, though. Here." He said, digging into his jacket. He retrieved a piece of paper and handed it to Mycroft "My number. Contact me if you get yourself in trouble. If you even so much as get a dizzy spell just call me, okay? Don't wait until it's an emergency because I don't think you can message very well when you can't even stand up anymore. And you don't just need to contact me if something happens, it'd be cool to chat." Mycroft nodded, feeling uncomfortable but pleasantly warm at the man's worry "Thank you, Gregory, your concern is very nice. Here's my number, if you ever need something or even feel the impulse to just contact me." Greg smiled and took it "Thanks."

"Let's walk together through the park, shall we?" Greg proposed, Mycroft nodding his assent. The pair started walking together, Mycroft put his umbrella up to shelter them "Have you got a coat?" Greg asked, feeling the evening chill even through his jacket. Mycroft shook his head "No, I didn't bring one this morning. But I've got my umbrella." Greg shook his head "Bloody hell you'll freeze to death in only that suit. I'll bet you're walking for some time, I'm not sure where your house is but I know it's not on this side of London."

Mycroft looked down "I'm fine, really, Gregory. I've been in worse conditions. Besides, what can be done now?" He reasoned. Greg hummed in thought before shedding his coat "Here, wear this. My works just around the corner and I've got a jumper as well as that. You need it more than I do, no sense in getting a cold when you don't have to." Mycroft shook his head "No I couldn't possibly, it's your coat. I'm the one who forgot to bring one I should bear the consequences." Greg chuckled "You make it sound so dramatic, it's just a coat. Wear it. I'm not going back to work until I see you wearing it." Mycroft looked into Greg's eyes and could see that it was useless debating "Okay." He said pulling it on "Thank you, Greg, it's very kind and considerate of you."

Mycroft was awarded with a grin that made his stomach flip "No problem, My. Now," he said turning to look at Mycroft "I guess this is goodbye for now." Mycroft turned to see they were standing by the park's gates "Yes, I suppose it is." He said, trying to block out the sad feeling that filled him. Greg smiled "Well, Mr Holmes, it was a pleasure. That was the most weird, unconventional, pleasant and enjoyable break I've had." He said, offering Mycroft a hand which Mycroft shook "Same for me. It was most enjoyable, detective inspector. Good bye, I hope the case and paperwork goes well." Greg smiled as he started to walk away "Thanks! Hope you get home okay, see you later."

Mycroft watched the detective's form disappear into the distance before walking himself. He pulled the coat tight around him, it was incredibly comfortable and warm. A natural musky smell blended with cologne and the combination as well as the thoughts of the man whom the coat belonged to made Mycroft's heart beat in a peculiar way. He frowned slightly and shook his head. Perhaps it was a weird after affect of his earlier loss of consciousness.

The afternoon had honestly been lovely and Mycroft couldn't help the buzz of the natural high that filled his body. He couldn't quite explain why but the whole experience had been unusually pleasant and Gregory Lestrade was addictive to talk to or even be around. He walked away from the park considerably more happy than he had been arriving at it. He didn't even feel too guilty about the large amount of food he'd eaten, he was going to walk an amount of it off getting home. He would not purge himself because Greg had paid for that food and he did not want to waste it like that, it'd be incredibly ungrateful. Besides it wasn't too much food and Gregory hadn't seemed to mind when he'd eaten it, he didn't look disgusted or anything like that.

The walk back to his home was nice, he walked energetically, his high feeling making it pleasant as he absentmindedly admired the scenery and atmosphere of the moody, dark evening with the rain falling heavily from the sky. Shielded by his umbrella and tucked away safely in Lestrade's coat Mycroft was able to admire the weather without being victim to any of the harshness of it.

Arriving at his house, Mycroft unlocked the door putting his umbrella on a rack to dry and Greg's coat on a radiator. He pulled off his clothes and wore his pyjamas and favourite black nightgown then went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Mycroft paused slightly, considering, before he allowed himself a shortbread biscuit with his drink, he was too content to be disgusted by it. Curling up on the sofa with his drink and biscuit, Mycroft flicked the TV on, deciding to vaguely watch whatever was on. He saw that he had a text and unlocked his phone.

Hey, My. Did you get home alright? :)

-GL

Mycroft smiled at the message, chuckling softly, before replying.

Yes, thank you. How was work?

-MH

A reply came quickly, to his pleasant surprise.

Shit. But it's okay. Maybe it's just because I'm in a positive mood from the park but I found it more hilarious than anything else. You should have seen Donovan's face when she saw the evidence had been botched! It was priceless.

-GH

I'm sorry to hear it didn't go as planned. Anything I can do to help just ask me, I'd be more than happy to assist you. Did you enjoy the park then?

-MH

Nah, it's okay. We are passing it on to a different department, we've done our bit. As for the park, yeah, definitely. Who knew just getting coffee and going to a public park could be so enjoyable? Of course, the company is what makes all the difference. We should do it again some time.

-GL

Mycroft smiled happily.

Definitely

-MH


	20. Work place texts

Since John had come back Sherlock had enjoyed every second. Of course things still weren't great for either of the pair but they were managing a lot better together, when one was struggling the other would be there quickly to help them through it. Sherlock had especially loved playing with and caring for Rosie. He loved the beautiful little baby with all of his heart and felt privileged at every second of time he could spend with her.

But watching the tiny little human being wriggling around in her cot often sent him into a downwards spiral of grief and self loathing. He couldn't help but hate himself for the way that he had taken this pure baby's mother away from her at such a young age none the less. She would never have a mother and it was his fault. But these thoughts lost a lot of their burn now that he wasn't thinking about them alone in the dark of night. Instead he was in the warm, firm embrace of his best friend, because it didn't take John long to realise something was wrong when it happened. It hurt less when John was there telling him it wasn't his fault in such a certain, non-debatable tone.

"The paperworks arrived in the post, the ones about moving out of the house. Honestly, everything comes down to paperwork these days." John remarked, walking into the room. He collapsed into his chair and started looking through the papers "I don't think I'll be getting a moving truck or anything, we've got enough furniture here and I've got all of my clothes here already. Mostly it's just Rosie's things I need to bring over. I was thinking about moving the last of it next Saturday. Will you be helping?" He asked. "Sure." Sherlock replied with a small smile, he couldn't help the excited feeling he got every time John talked about the fact he was moving back in permanently. It was all he had longed for for years and it was actually happening.

John put the paperwork away for later with a huff and smiled at Sherlock "So how's that case going? Have you started it yet?" "Yes, I've just started taking a look at it. It looks very promising, in fact. I would have started sooner but I didn't really feel, well… 'up to it'." Sherlock said the last part in a semi sneer, not liking acknowledging weakness let alone admitting to it. John nodded understandingly "Yeah, that's to be expected. In fact you'd probably be in a lot worse shape if you weren't so strong. It's really good that you've started seeing a therapist, Sherlock, it's not exactly easy to do, especially when you're not used to it. How did you find your first session?"

Sherlock thought back to the day "It was… interesting. I'll admit I'm not finding it particularly pleasant at the moment but the lady is good, clearly a professional and is motivated by the right reasons in her job. I just… I didn't realise how hard it would be talking about things." John nodded, listening seriously "Yeah, like I said you're doing really well Sherlock. If you keep going it'll get easier and it will help you. If you don't like anything about the therapist we can change it, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable and considerably whiny talking about himself and his feelings like this. John noticed and seemed to understand "So, the case. Any ideas yet?" Sherlock smiled a small thanks for the subject change "About ten at the moment, I haven't got much data at this point so it's hard to find the details. You know I don't come up with a theory before finding out a substantial amount of facts." John smiled "Yeah, 'changing facts to fit your theory rather than your theory to fit the facts is an appalling habit'" he said in a deep, imitating voice. Sherlock smiled a cross between humorously and sheepishly, the pair giggling to themselves.

"So what're you going to do next?" John asked. Sherlock hummed in thought "I was thinking about calling my brother over. I want to involve him a bit more in this case." John nodded "You're worried about him." Sherlock looked down "Yeah. This whole business that's passed could not have been good for him. I think it hurt him more than me, despite the fact Eurus created that whole puzzle to torture me. I'm not the one who's had to live with the knowledge of all of it and has been forced to make the right decision when the only options are wrong. He's all alone, always, and I don't like it. As much as he'd deny it he's human too, he can't go through this alone. And I don't like the way he is acting so calm, all things considered. I…"

Sherlock sighed "I have to help him, John. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him. But I don't know how to help. Damn Mycroft is always so secretive and independent, he never bloody lets anyone know if something's wrong." John looked at him with serious eyes "It's okay, Sherlock, I'll help you too. We'll find out what's wrong and help him, together." Sherlock smiled "Thanks, John."

Mycroft sat in his office, mindlessly working through paperwork. He still felt considerably positive after the park the previous day. To his delight, Greg had continued to message him. He was happy enough that he could even endure paperwork for another day without going insane. When he had come back to work after his several day long absence, it seemed as if no one had noticed he'd been missing. For people that relied so heavily upon him they sure didn't seem to need him much.

But that was okay, because everything felt okay to Mycroft right now. He could not quite understand why he felt so happy and a voice in his head reasoned that it was probably not very healthy for him to let himself enjoy like this because letting yourself feel was just a way of becoming vulnerable, because if something happened the more you felt positively before the worse it will hurt and those memories positive feelings and happy times will turn bitter. Under normal circumstances he would never let himself be so influenced by emotion but the happiness was just so addictive.

He had let himself eat a bit more, Greg's words of concern about him and over his diet replaying in his head every time he started to feel disgusted with his food consumption. Mycroft had fallen into a steady routine of eating. Rather than starving himself for days on end and throwing up anything he ate larger than a piece of fruit he had made sure he ate at least one full meal a day and a smaller snack. It felt like a lot but he stuck with it, feeling as if he would be disappointing Greg if he ate any less.

That was another problem. Never before had a person held such influence over him so quickly. And he could not even figure out why but Greg's opinion seemed to mean a lot to him and he was hanging off every word the man had said. Despite knowing him for some years now, that afternoon in the park had been the only time he had properly talked to the police detective. He could not understand it but that didn't change the fact he had become almost obsessed with the man. Mycroft couldn't describe it or explain it but he was intrigued by the man, attracted as if he was an oppositely charged Jon that had been caught in the man's static electric field.

His phone buzzed and Mycroft looked to check the message. He couldn't help but smile as he saw the sender.

Heya, My, you gone to work today? :)

-GL

Yeah. I had a couple days off but I couldn't procrastinate my return forever.

-MH

Cheers to that, it'd be good if you could though. How're you feeling today? Didn't get any dizzy spells or feel sick or anything?

-GL

No, I'm fine today. I just needed a meal, water and a good nights sleep. How's your work?

-MH

I work at New Scotland Yard. It's full of the most insufferable, stubborn rogues you'll ever come across. And then there's the criminals :p

-GL

Mycroft laughed, causing Anthea, who'd been walking through the room, to look at him strangely and with considerable surprise.

Funny. Should you really be talking about your colleagues in such a manor?

-MH

You wouldn't say that if you had to work with them.

-GL

Probably true. I myself work with what seems to be all the dreariest men the world has washed up. That's why I fit right in.

-MH

Nonsense. You're the most interesting man I've met. You are the finest example of the brilliance humanity is capable of holding so don't you talk so lowly of yourself.

-GL

Thank you. I'm hardly even close to being as great as you say I am but it's very kind of you.

-MH

No, the words I could say to describe you would never do justice to your perfection. Oh crap I've gotta go. I'm in an important meeting with my boss and the DIs from the other departments and they just found out I was texting XD

-GL

Oh dear, don't get into trouble over me. I hope everything goes well

-MH

The reply made Mycroft glow with happiness.

You're completely worth it.

-GL


	21. Down hill

Upon hearing his text alert, Mycroft quickly scrambled to retrieve his phone, checking the sender ID hopefully. A sort of disappointment filled him when his brother's name filled the screen. Mycroft instantly chastised himself for having such thoughts, he loved it when his brother messaged him, no matter what it was about. Even when it was something bad or he simply needed something, which most of the time it was, he cherished hearing from his beloved brother.

But he had been waiting for Greg. It was unfair of him, the man was a police detective for goodness sake! He was busy, he held a challenging job and surely had plenty of work to do and even if he was free why would he message him? They only just started to get to know each other. It had only been a few days without him messaging, it would be weird if Greg HAD constantly messaged him, because they were hardly even friends, acquaintances more than anything else. Of course they were, why would they be anything more? There was no logical explanation for the weird pain in Mycroft's chest at the speculation, it was probably just indigestion.

Or perhaps it was the large amounts of food he had been eating finally takings its toll. Mycroft flushed a bright red, face burning in shame. Why had he been eating so much? Had he thought he could eat disgustingly large amounts of food and not be affected by it? Of course it would affect him. He had eaten carelessly for a whole week and now he was going to be fat again and unfit. Mycroft scowled to himself. How could he expect to be able to maintain relationships with his friends and family when he couldn't even maintain his own body?

Mycroft felt sick, he screwed his eyes shut and pulled his legs close to his chest, trying to ride out the wave of nausea and darkness that overcame him. Dark feelings formed within him that didn't bother to name themselves before circling his brain, preying upon him. He felt hot, burning hot, and feverish as he imagined fatty acids diffusing irreversibly into his blood stream, becoming part of him, clogging everything they touched. He clawed at his stomach, helpless against the changes that were happening there. Was it just his imagination or had he gotten larger?

Mycroft got to his feet quickly, unable to take all the thoughts and feelings that were bombarding him. He ran to bathroom, noting how he became out of breath and his legs started to ache. Fuck he was unfit. Why? Why had he let this happen to him again? He'd been doing so well, he had been on the brink of getting slimmer and then he'd just caved and started eating too much. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

Leaning over the toilet, he was prepared this time. He had a bottle of water next to him and some chemical concoction Mycroft had designed especially since analysing the effects of the last time he'd purged. It would stop the acid from eating away at his mouth, throat and teeth. He also had some spearmint sugar-free gum to get rid of the taste and smell and he had cleaning supplies near by to clean up the room if things got messy. He had prepared everything after last time.

Putting two fingers together, Mycroft stuck them down his throat. With the nausea he was already feeling, it didn't taken long for sick to rise in his throat. He clung onto the sides of the toilet, not wanting to fall from the exertion of it all. His last experience with purging himself was not pleasant and this was definitely no different but Mycroft knew that he had to keep going, that it was all for a good cause. He needed to do this, it didn't matter what was 'pleasant' or not, he would not let his own petty feelings get in the way of this again, hell, he wouldn't let anything get in the way of it! Purging himself was his priority, losing his fat was his priority, nothing else mattered because if he couldn't do this tiny thing then how could anyone expect him to be able to do anything?

Once again when he triggered the spurts of vomit it didn't take long for him to lose control of it. But this time he surrendered himself to it quickly. He numbed his taste buds and ignored the horrid feeling that plagued him. Soon it became rather addictive in a manic sort of way. It started to feel good, not the actual throwing up but the concept. It felt really good to be rid of the gross food that had almost blended into him.

Stopping wasn't very straight forward, it wasn't like suddenly it was all over and he consciously knew it was done and everything just stopped and went back to normal. The gagging and hacking coughs didn't stop, they kept going. Slowly vomit thinned and turned to bile, his stomach clenching tightly trying to push everything out. He had to consciously stop himself from continuing when he knew there was no food left to come out. It took him several attempts and rhythmic breathing to stop at which point he let himself collapse to the floor, panting, gasping and coughing.

Mycroft closed his eyes, taking deep breaths and rubbing his temples, trying to get a hold of himself again. He would not let himself fall asleep again like last time, it wouldn't be very good at all if he did. So after he managed to get the room to stop spinning, Mycroft got to his feet, fighting a spell of dizziness that overcame him as he got up too quickly for his body to manage. Now it was time for cleaning. Mycroft disinfected all of the surfaces of his bathroom, knowing that the bacteria from his vomit would not be limited to the area visually contaminated. He washed out his mouth thoroughly with several chemical cocktails, each trying to prevent any negative effects of the strong acid.

After cleaning everything, including himself, up Mycroft fell into his sofa with a grunt. He had not planned on doing that when he'd woken up that morning. But then, that was a good thing, right? It meant he was finally starting to gain the mental restraint that he needed to properly start improving his body. And that was good.

Mycroft huffed, lying down, feeling rather lightheaded. It was then he remembered the texts from his rigged. What had he wanted? He found his phone and unlocked it with curiosity

Hey, Mycroft, I've started working on the case and I wondered if you wanted to come work on it with me too.

-SH

What I mean is I'd really appreciate your company, brother.

-SH

Mycroft sighed, running his hands over his face. There was no way he could ignore the request after that. His brother had actually been earnest with what he wanted and what he felt, that was something Sherlock never did. So he had to go. Of course, he was overjoyed his brother wanted to spend time with him but inevitably Sherlock would notice there was something 'wrong' and try to fix it, he always found ways things could be 'fixed' or 'solved' even if they didn't need to be. Mycroft suddenly regretted purging, Sherlock was bound to come to some sort of conclusion quicker with the more obvious signs it would have left behind. Sherlock might not appreciate the advantages of purging in Mycroft's situation as much as he did and he might misunderstand. And yet Mycroft still had to go, because his purpose in life just told him he would appreciate his company.


	22. John's observations

Mycroft stood in front of the mirror, looking himself over for the hundredth time. He had tried to rid his person of anything that his brother might find suspicious. It's not that he was doing anything that people had reason to be suspicious about, it's just that his brother was a worrier when it came to family or friends and the recent take Mycroft had adopted on his diet may… concern him. It was ridiculous, of course, over reacting on his brother's part but still Mycroft didn't want to deal with the fuss the younger man would make.

Once he was happy that he looked exactly as he had every other time Sherlock saw him, Mycroft set off out the door. He was walking to Baker Street, naturally, so he had informed Sherlock that he had a meeting but would be available at noon, which gave him plenty of time to get there. Mycroft took a packet of cigarettes and another of gum both of which he intended to use on his journey.

It was a work day and not particularly appealing since a grey-black cloud had covered the whole sky thickly, giving the impression that it was late evening rather than early day. But Mycroft was rather glad for the weather since he personally took no note of it. It was not raining so he didn't have to defend himself as to why he was out in the rain instead of taking a cab or one of his own cars. The fact it was neither sunny nor attractive in any way just meant less people were about, which Mycroft preferred. Lighting his first cigarette, Mycroft got himself into a steady pace.

Three miles, four cigarettes and two pieces of gum later, 221B Baker Street was within Mycroft's view. He'd had the gum after smoking, hoping to smell a bit less like an ashtray before walking into his brother's house. He hoped it worked but then even if it hadn't Sherlock wasn't exactly someone in a position to lecture him about the dangers of smoking.

The walk had been good. It felt nice feeling his muscles burn and ache because it meant he was getting stronger and fitter. It was also very satisfying successfully r dieting the burning in his stomach. After about twenty minutes of walking the burning hunger felt more like a reminder of the gross, unhealthy life he was leaving behind, that weak version of himself was burning away as viciously as his stomach acid.

Arriving at the front door, Mycroft knocked twice, not particularly favouring the doorbell. It was loud, irritating and there was no guarantee Sherlock hadn't destroyed it in some new bizarre way. Mrs Hudson opened the door and gestured for him to come in. Presumably she knew that Sherlock was expecting him since she didn't rest his right to be there.

"You're early." Was Sherlock's chosen phrase of greeting. "Yes, I left the meeting early, not that anyone noticed. It was dreary and boring, everyone was even more idiotic than what is averagely humanly accepted." Sherlock nodded "Tea?" He offered. Mycroft shook his head "No thank you, brother." Mycroft grimaced as Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. To is relief the younger looked back down at what he'd been doing, shrugging dismissively.

"So what start have you made?" Mycroft asked, walking behind Sherlock. "Have a seat if you wish." Sherlock invited. Mycroft shook his head again "I'm alright, thank you." Sherlock gave him another strange look but let it pass "I've got several ideas." Sherlock started. Mycroft gave him a look that clearly said 'no you haven't'. Sherlock blushed and rephrased "Okay maybe I've got one, well, two halves. But it… so far it doesn't add up. Not that I expected it to! It's quite normal for this stage of a case to be confusing, I will soon find some piece of evidence that makes it all clear."

Mycroft nodded in a way he hoped didn't look too patronising "Sure. Just one piece of advice, completely neutral. Just a general observation nothing, of course, about this case in particular. It doesn't necessarily have to be just one organisation that planned it." Mycroft watched as a look of puzzlement came over his little brother's face then one of realisation. He quickly started pouring over the various documents and images he had. Mycroft chuckled, his little brother was really so adorable.

Mycroft noticed that John had not said anything. He was sitting in his chair appearing to be somewhere between zoning out and deep thought. "Good day, Dr. Watson." The man's eyes came back into focus on the room "Hm, what? Oh, yeah, hi." Mycroft frowned slightly in concern "Are you quite all right, Doctor?" John, looking more serious and focused, nodded. "Yeah I'm alright. Just a bit hungry, didn't eat breakfast. You're just on time, actually, we can all go for lunch now." Mycroft stiffened but tried to keep his appearance as unaltered as he could manage. The room felt too hot, his clothes too tight for him, his fat straining against the expensive fabric. Was it his imagination or was John staring at him very scrutinisingly?

"Lunch? I could possibly intrude once again upon your dinning. Besides, my brother seems rather inclined to doing nothing but enthusing over this case for a solid few hours at the least." Mycroft debated. John shook his head "Nonsense." He chucked a pillow at Sherlock "Sherlock, lunch time." Sherlock seemed slightly stunned at being taken from the realm of his thoughts so suddenly. "I don't think I really need to-" Sherlock cut off as John fixed him with a look and the two stared at each other, exchanging private words through their eyes. After a moment Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded "Yeah. Lunch. Good. Lunch sounds good."

Mycroft heard the words to his dismay. If Sherlock was eating then there was absolutely no way he couldn't without drawing attention to himself. He cursed himself violently at his selfish thoughts. Selfish, selfish, selfish. How could he even think anything like that? It was amazing Sherlock was eating! It was brilliant and he was overjoyed his little brother was eating healthier than he had done before, he was far too skinny.

Mycroft forced himself to be calm. His health may be his big priority at the moment, getting skinny and healthy, but Sherlock ALWAYS came first for him. He forced a smile, this wasn't about him dieting it was about Sherlock eating. "Come on then. Let's go."

The two Holmes brothers started down the stairs, Sherlock said a short goodbye to Mrs Hudson, informing her they were going out. John watched the pair leave, a frown forming on his face as soon as they were out of eye sight. He sighed and shook his head, pulling his coat on and following the two siblings.


	23. Pret A Manger

At least, Mycroft reasoned, they were not going to a big restaurant or anything of the likes. That was of some little comfort to him since people's expectations of your food consumption was lower. The trio were sitting in a little 'Pret A Manger'. Mycroft felt somewhat uncomfortable sitting in the overly padded sofa chair, it seemed as if it had swallows him and any move he made looked clumsy. Perhaps it was just the situation though, he didn't like getting even remotely comfortable in a public area or even with someone else in the room.

They had sat down to decide what they wanted since their seating arrangement meant they could see the menu board and shelves easily enough. Mycroft felt the knot of dread that had formed within him ever since John pointed out it was lunch time get bigger at the concept of having to chose something to eat. It wasn't that nothing seemed appealing to him, quite the contrary in fact.

Mycroft was a food enthusiast, he'd admit he was a sweet tooth and also enjoyed savoury foods as well. His first instinct was to get a meatball wrap, crisps, shortbread and a ginger beer but he knew he couldn't. Eating wasn't about taste or stuffing yourself until you were over full it was about giving your body enough fuel to survive and what the body really needed was one meal every two weeks. Mycroft had already had at least four meals that weak.

For most people eating three meals a day was good because the purpose of that was to keep the body conditions stable and healthy but for Mycroft it was different, he was over weight and he knew it. There was nothing 'stable and healthy' about his body conditions and he knew it, he didn't need three meals a day because he didn't ever do any exercise that required energy and his current body size was not something he wanted to maintain, he needed to get skinny and quick.

So he could not possibly have a wrap, crisps, biscuit and sugary drink in fact if it was down to him alone he wouldn't be eating at all right now, he had just purged! Was it all for nothing? "Are you coming?" Sherlock's voice cut through his anxious thoughts. Both other men were standing, on their way to buying food. Mycroft nodded and stood, he really had to work on that zoning out thing, it'd been getting worse.

John watched as Sherlock tried to chose just a bowl of fruits for his lunch. He tsked, chiding him "Sherlock, we agreed. A full meal for lunch and dinner, it doesn't have to be big or unhealthy or anything but it has to be able to pass for an actual meal." Sherlock nodded, adding a sandwich, cereal bar and lemon juice to his load, to johns satisfaction. He himself got a panini, muffin and coffee. He risked a glance back at Mycroft and saw the man was studying the display of food as if it were the most vital secret document and required every ounce of his concentration.

Mycroft watched as John and Sherlock payed for their food before walking off. He bit his lip, if he didn't hurry up he would start drawing attention, in fact he already had. Mycroft quickly chose a small salad pack which appeared to have the least dressing, the good thing about Pret A Manger was that they were one of those new places that promoted healthy eating and natural ingredients which meant it was full of salads and not just dull tasteless ones that people looked at you like you were crazy if you purchased. He was hoping that factor would bring some attention off him. Why shouldn't he have salad? Both John and Sherlock knew very well he was on a diet and anyway you didn't have to be on a diet to enjoy salad. Happy that he had fully justified his decision in food, Mycroft moved onto the drinks and snacks.

He had to get a drink and snack because getting a salad he could probably get away with but getting just a salad? That was suspicious. And Mycroft didn't have anything for people to be suspicious about so it really wouldn't do to have people worry over nothing. Mycroft chose a fruit cup of passion fruit mango and pineapple. He grimaced at the amount of natural sugar that they contained, because honestly people forgot just how bloody much sugar fruits contained, but at least they weren't as fatty as a cake or yogurt and muesli. As for a drink he got coconut water and did not look at the back, he would probably lose the little appetite he had if he saw what was inside that, despite it being one of the 'healthiest' drinks there.

Paying for them he rushed back to the table, sitting back down on the ridiculous chair with a 'poof'. Sherlock frowned at his food "Is that all you're having?" Mycroft was glad for the mask he had perfected over the years that he could make portray any emotion he wished despite what he really felt. Right then it held an easy smile with a hint of weariness in his eyes and slight embarrassment. You had to hide emotions in a fake mask too or it was easier to see your real hidden emotions, it was like writing a back story for a character in a story, you don't hear it but it's there in subtext influencing every decision the character makes.

"Yes, I had a rather large breakfast. Tongues are looser and minds more open to influence in the early hours of the morning, while eating and when doing something that is not directly linked to work, therefore I find myself attending many breakfast parties. I also have been feeling a bit under the weather, minor nausea and dizziness from being stuck inside and over eating at breakfast, I felt like something fresher that was easier for my stomach to take at the moment." Mycroft explained, words flowing easily.

The key to a lie is information and context, therefore keeping a lie as close to the truth or at least something you have experienced yourself always made it more believable. He had, in fact, over eaten at breakfast while discussing political matters and found himself feeling unwell and unable to take anything other than refreshing foods without upsetting his delicate diet so he was able to make it believable because it was a truth just not the truth of that moment.

Sherlock nodded, seeming to accept this explanation, though looking slightly concerned at hearing Mycroft wasn't feeling too well "You must take better care of yourself, brother. There are enough dangers to us in this world without ourselves being one of them." John scoffed, nudging him playfully "You can't talk!" Sherlock blushed with a little grin "Well I never claimed to be a good example I was merely observing."

John smiled, happy at the free and normal way the outing was going. It really was a good idea to get out and do stuff as much as they could because it was easier to work through this darkness that had overcome them all when you were just getting on with life rather than dwelling. He knew that it was also unwise to shut off all of the thoughts and feelings because they had to be dealt with, and they would be. But it was nice to enjoy a bit and feel like nothing had happened.

Sherlock had finished one of the halves of his sandwich, the fruit cup and half a the cereal bar when he'd decided he couldn't eat any more. He gave John a questioning look, knowing that if he insisted he should finish what he'd bought then Sherlock would do so, but john just smiled and nodded. "You know you're doing really well, Sherlock. Two nearly three weeks of eating full proper meals every day. I don't want to sound patronising or anything because I'm not I'm honestly really proud of you and just generally happy that you're doing this. Knowing the effects a poor diet has on someone from a medical point of view was painful seeing you inflict that upon yourself."

Sherlock smiled, looking down "Thanks, John." John squeezed Sherlock's hand. He didn't usually use physical signs of assurance when it came to his best friend unless the situation really called for it but it just felt like the right thing to do in the moment. He was going to pull back after the squeeze but found that Sherlock's hand was gently gripping his. Not in a way that would prevent him from pulling away easily but still John did not move, instead he held the detective's hand tighter, Sherlock's tightening in reaction. The pair soon paced their fingers together as they drank their drinks gently.


	24. Longing for solitude

One of the advantages of the fact he had been forgotten meant that neither Sherlock noir John had noticed when Mycroft put half his salad, his nearly full fruit cup and partially drunk coconut water carton in the bin. He'd known he would soon become a third wheel whenever going out with Sherlock and John, in fact he had been surprised it had taken so long for them to start ignoring him, unintentionally of course. He was pleased to see the two men just happily chatting to each other.

Despite what everyone seemed to think he really had been worried about his younger brother in his period of self destruction. His heart had ached at the self loathing and guilt evident in those beautiful blue eyes which, in his opinion, should only ever be supposed to hold happiness and joy. Mycroft had scarcely witnessed anything as tragic as the desperate loneliness Sherlock had radiated combined with the hesitation of feeling as if he wouldn't be wanted.

Everyone assumed Mycroft didn't care or didn't understand emotion enough to be able to empathise but of course he did. Then again it's not like he'd done anything to help, provided a shoulder to cry on, comforted the poor boy or anything, he had just watched. Where the people who claimed he didn't care really so wrong? But then, what did Mycroft matter? He knew he didn't matter, only Sherlock mattered to him and only John mattered to Sherlock. Mycroft was just so glad that Sherlock had John again because he didn't think he'd have been able to take watching Sherlock in that much pain for any longer.

It was rather lonely, though. Mycroft knew very well what his position was, where he stood. He knew that no one cared about him in particular, those who did were obliged to for example his parents or all Sherlock's friends. But then, his parents hated him now. They had put up with a lot of his shit for so many years and he'd finally crossed the line, the elastic limit so to speak. Hooke's law, when you stretched an elastic object beyond a certain point it can never return to its original shape. It hurt a lot knowing his own mother and father hated him now, and it was his fault. That made it hurt even worse, it was his own bloody fault. Mycroft's breaths were shallow, each one trembling slightly as a pain flared in his chest.

He looked at Sherlock and John and saw everything he could never have. He could never have friends, never a best friend. No connection of love and affection so strong no matter what they go through they will always return by each other's side. No concern when he was hurting or person who would turn to him when they couldn't handle it on their own. He didn't even have a friend full stop.

Wouldn't that be nice? He pretended he didn't want friends, pretended the concept repulsed him but really he was only human. No one wanted to be his friend or even his acquaintance, no matter how hard he tried he would always end up alone so he pretended he liked it that way. He pretended he was as happy as could be, perfectly content in his glorified isolation. Just a single person who wouldn't benefit if he died would do.

Watching Sherlock and John hold hands and talk contently in the glow of each other's company, it hurt. It burnt. It burnt like the coldest most remorseless ice. But then perhaps this was his set punishment. To be stuck perpetually living a life in a world of couples and friends and families, every word, every action motivated by love, and being completely and utterly alone. He didn't know if it was a punishment he was able to take but he knew he deserved every single second of it and worse.

Mycroft took a shuddering breath. He pulled slightly at his shirt collar, it felt like it was strangling him it was pressing up against his throat and every breath was too hard. He felt hot, too hot, and sweaty and he could feel blood pumping through his ears. His shirt was far too tight against his stomach, his belt was digging into him uncomfortably. He was too fat for his clothes. How had the food acted so fast? He'd only eaten a few minutes ago and already he was larger, he needed to stop it.

With a shuddered breath Mycroft got out of his seat. To his dismay Sherlock and John decided to notice him this time. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked with a slight frown. "I'm going to the toilet, brother mine, not that I see how that's any of your concern." Mycroft countered, Sherlock scowled but dropped the subject. John frowned and got up "Yeah I need to go too. Sherlock you can look after our stuff right?" Mycroft hoped he didn't look as horrified as he felt. Why did John have to come too? If he had waited a bit would john have gone if his own accord then he could have gone after, alone?

Sherlock rolled his eyes "I single handedly caught ten of Ukraine's most notorious murderers with nothing but a sweat corn cob and the sole of a high heal, I think I can look after a few coats." John smirked "Yeah, well you also single handedly accidentally blew up my pillow case with a tea bag and finger nail clippings so I'll take that as a 'maybe but leave your items at your own risk'." Sherlock grinned at that as the pair walked away.

The silence that followed Mycroft found extensively awkward, the heavy pounding of his feet against the floor was all he could hear. He hoped that the toilets were individual rooms rather than a collective one with cubicles. That'd provide him with the privacy he needed to purge himself. But he was not so lucky.

Mycroft dragged his steps slightly, waiting for John to overtake him so he could leave. But John went to the vending machine next to the hand driers and inserted money. He looked over to Mycroft "You don't have to wait up." He said, gesturing to the toilets. Mycroft gave him an incredibly fake smile which was all he could manage at that moment and walked into the bathroom cubicle where he paced around several times before coming back out but John was still there. "Pressed the wrong number." John said nodding towards the machine. Mycroft nodded and walked back into the cubicle, sinking to the floor where he buried his face in his hands and bit back a pitiful sobbing noise.

Outside the cubicles John absentmindedly pocketed what he'd bought, staring at the door Mycroft had disappeared behind with serious eyes.


	25. Bulimia nervosa

John kept watching the door with deep concern, hoping Mycroft would come out and just come back to the table. He had wanted to check his theory to make absolute certain he was right but now he was feeling incredibly guilty. He knew it was ridiculous, if he hadn't invited Mycroft to lunch he wouldn't have eaten at all.

But now he was standing behind the closed door, listening to the faint sobbing and whimpering coming from the man who was normally so controlled and conserved and he knew it was his fault. If he hadn't eaten then he wouldn't be so… John could find the right word. Upset? The word seemed strange associated with the stoic, proud man.

John sighed, running his hands over his face. He had intended to stay by Mycroft's side, make sure he couldn't do anything stupid while he could prevent it. But he just couldn't. Maybe he was weak, maybe he was being really stupid but he could not stay there because he knew that he was the main reason why Mycroft was so distressed. He couldn't stay. He knew that as soon as he left Mycroft would make himself throw up the little he had eaten, and John was well aware of just how small his meal had been.

A vicious voice in his head screamed at him that it'd be his fault if Mycroft threw up if he left and maybe that voice was right. But John just couldn't stand there because he knew he was just making it worse. John shook his head and walked out. Maybe he could use the opportunity to tell Sherlock. John sighed wearily again, this would not be easy.

Mycroft heard the the sound of the bathroom doors swinging shut and risked a glance out. He let out a breath of relief, John was gone. Mycroft saw his reflection in the mirrors with a sneer. His eyes were red, purple rings forming around them. His face was pale with blotched red tear streaks traced down his cheeks. In short he looked pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Mycroft grimaced, he hoped John had not heard him crying. He just couldn't take it. He felt so helpless and stuck and like a darkness was engulfing him, suffocating him. He couldn't breath.

But now he was alone. He wasn't stuck anymore, he knew exactly what to do and there was no one around to stop him. With a small smile that was a cross between serene and manic, Mycroft started the procedure that was quickly becoming a familiar, comforting release.

As Sherlock came into his eye sight, John hesitated before reassuring himself and starting his stride again. Sherlock looked up at him with a smile "Hey." It was clear to John the relief in the man's eyes and he 'deduced' that he had been starting to get lost in depression again. "Hey." John replied with a smile, sitting down with a grunt "Have you got any use for a tampon, extra strong breath mints, two disposable toothbrushes and an extra sensitive condom?" He asked, dumping the random stuff he had absentmindedly bought as an excuse to chaperone Mycroft. Sherlock smirked at him "Did you just go to the toilet or Tesco?" John chuckled.

"Mycroft not with you?" Sherlock enquired. His brows creased "Is he ill? He did say he wasn't feeling well and he barely touched his food…." John bit his lip "Um no. Well… kind of. I don't know." John sighed, recollecting himself "Look, Sherlock. There's something I need to tell you. I've been suspicious of it for some time but I wasn't really sure until today." Sherlock frowned, his face becoming serious and John could see the man mentally bracing himself.

John decided it'd be best if he cut the crap and just said it. He took a deep breath, doubting his ability to actually get the words out, Sherlock's worried blue eyes staring down at him, the memory of Mycroft whimpering and gasping collapsed on a public toilet floor. "Sherlock, Mycroft has bulimia nervosa."

Sherlock blinked. John watched as a thousand emotions flashed through his eyes, some he didn't even know how to name. He sat rigidly straight in his chair as John watched him, not speaking. John's concern increased every second he didn't talk "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?"

"You're wrong." John blinked, caught of guard by the sudden speech. "I'm sorry, what?" He asked, confused. "You're wrong. Mycroft doesn't have b-… THAT. Why would you think that?" Sherlock looked at him with wild eyes and one glance into those blue orbs and John knew Sherlock knew very well it was true, he had done for some time, he just hadn't accepted it. John sighed "Look, Sherlock, I know this'll be hard for you to get to terms with but you have to, for Mycroft's sake."

Sherlock shook his head violently "John, it's not true! I know it's not true! Give me one single piece of evidence that means he does." John shook his head exasperatedly, but mainly pityingly but he humoured him, Sherlock needed this to come to terms with it. "There are lots of things, Sherlock. The way he's started to always smell of gum, his eyes are red with darker red pools in the edge and the skin around his eyes too most likely from where blood vessels have burst due to purging, and all the scars over his knuckles where his teeth have cut him just to name some of the signs."

Sherlock shook his head "He's just struggling with his smoking addiction, that's all. That also effects your food intake and appetite too." "Sherlock don't do this." John chided "You are one of the smartest men in the Earth I refuse to believe you are unable to see these symptoms for what they are. You can't do this, Sherlock, it's not healthy. Coming up with a story that could explain the details too because it's easier for you to deal with than the truth."

Sherlock's eyes flared "Are you implying-" John quickly cut him off, this precious time was too important for them to waste fighting "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I'm just saying you know somewhere inside you that's not true. I mean maybe he is struggling with smoking but that's not what the signs are." Sherlock pursed his lips "I refuse to believe it on that much evidence alone." John sighed "Well, his small meal-" "He said he'd had a large breakfast." Sherlock countered. "He's lost weight." "Stress induced, I have told you these recent months have not been easy on him. Besides, he ate loads last time we went out." John bit his lip "Sherlock, have you heard of binging?"

John winced as a look of horror flashed over Sherlock's features before that too was thrown away to be concealed behind denial "Of course I have, but I don't see how it's relevant. If you don't have any substantial evidence to provide me then I'm not accepting it!" John looked at his best friend in empathy and took the younger man's hands in his own "Sherlock, he's purging himself in the bathroom right now!"


	26. Why him?

Sherlock made a weird shuddering noise, his eyes burning feverishly. John grimaced, clearly any delusion of everything being alright was overridden by the urgency of the situation. John gripped Sherlock's trembling hands tightly, partially out of comfort and partially so that he man wouldn't run off. He had opened his mouth to speak when Sherlock cut him off "John, quick we have to stop him!"

John tried to keep his voice steady, calm and soothing "Sherlo-" "John, he's alone and distressed, we have to help him! We can't let him hurt himself like this, can't let him get addicted!" Sherlock had sprung up, his chair screeching backwards and the table rocking, the only thing stopping him from sprinting to the toilets was John's grip on his hands. Several people had turned to stare.

"Sherlock, no we can't!" The curly haired detective took no notice of him "We have to hurry, who knows what he's doing to himself. He could be hurt and… wait. John, you were there with him! Why the hell did you leave him? Why the HELL would you leave him alone when you knew the state he was in?!" John winced, the Sherlock voicing the same irrational thoughts that had been spiralling through him. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, he had to stay level headed, neither of the Holmes brothers where in the right state of mind and could clearly not look after themselves right now, he needed to stay calm to look after the pair, it'd be no use them all freaking out.

"Sherlock, stay calm! Look, I know I left him in a vulnerable state which allowed him to purge himself but just LISTEN before you go and do something stupid!" Sherlock looked like he had several retorts ready but decided to stay quiet so he could listen to what John was going to say. "Thank you." John said as he silenced and stopped trying to run to his brother, though he still didn't sit.

"Okay, I have dealt with people with bulimia before, Sherlock, at work, and other eating disorders. There is never a right time to confront someone about an eating disorder but there is most definitely a wrong one. Mycroft had some sort of panic attack or break down or something in here just before and ran to the bathroom to purge, you saw that. He's not in his right state of mind, his thought process won't be reasonable.

"If we confront him right now he won't thank us for helping and admit he has a problem but say he's going to try to get better with our support! For him he probably feels that making himself throw up is good for him, I don't know how badly he's being affected at this point but it may have even become the only thing that makes sense to him anymore. For him if we walk in there he won't be grateful he'll be humiliated and stressed and he'll just take it out on himself when we aren't there to help him, he'll just hate himself even more in his head. And he won't stop, he'll withdraw.

"He'll start hiding his feelings even more than normal, especially from us, and every chance we have at helping him will disappear. I know it seems so wrong and goes against every instinct in the body but we can't stop him right now, we have to let him purge this time, besides it's probably already too late to prevent it, he's likely almost finished by now. We just have to be there for him and care for him, keep him around more often.

"We have to do this slowly because if we do anything suspicious or unusual then he's going to feel under attack and close up, we can't let that happen, okay? We are not going to stand back and let this happen, Sherlock, we are not going to let Mycroft continue to hurt like this, that's not what I'm saying. We are going to help him get better, I don't know why exactly he's doing this and I don't know how long he's been doing it for but we will help him. I promise you we will help him."

John softly rubbed Sherlock's hands, he wanted to pull the man into a hug because damn it he ever needed one it was now! But he knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate any public displays of affection. Sherlock honestly looked like he was fighting tears and losing terribly and it made John feel like crying too. Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded, shaking slightly. John tugged gently on his hands until he was sitting down again and smiled "It's going to be okay, Sherlock. We've found out on time, we can save him. I've seen lots of patients work through this sort of thing before."

Sherlock was silent for a while, wringing his hands in anxiety. "Why?" John looked up at him at the sudden speech. "Why him, John, why Mycroft? Why does it have to be Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse and shaky, sounding tearful, it made John's heart wrench. "Why does it have to be him? HOW can it be him? He's so strong and so perfect and so… so… Mycroft! Mycroft's not supposed to hurt like this, he's supposed to be the strong one, the sensible one, the one who's always there to comfort and make things better, how could this happen to him?"

John bit his lip and edged his chair closer to Sherlock's, pulling the younger man into a hug. "You said it yourself, Sherlock, this whole experience has not been kind on him. He's led a far from peaceful life an it had to all collapse on him at some point. Now that point has come we should just help him work through this then he can get to the peaceful life he deserves. It's not going to be fun or easy but you need to be strong, okay? For Mycroft. You're right, this is terrifying. That someone like Mycroft would be going through this, it's intimidating and confusing but we have to stay strong for him. Everything he's done for so many people, especially us, now it's him who needs help and we have to be there for him. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, crying silently into John's shoulder. "H-he doesn't deserve t-to hurt like this, J-John. He's s-so am-mazing. He d-doesn't deserve…" Sherlock gasped through his tears. John held him close, hushing him gently "I know, Sherlock, I know." He murmured, massaging Sherlock's back soothingly as the man sobbed desperately.

It was easier this time. The process of purging was becoming familiar to him and although he was not an expert Mycroft was starting to learn. Quite frankly he was proud of that, soon he would make himself a pro at this, soon he would be so thin and healthy, no more disgusting food contaminating him.

Of course, without his toothbrush or anything to clean himself up with this time was quite messy. Mycroft cleaned the cubicle as best he could with tissue paper, water and soap. As for his mouth and teeth, luckily the chemicals from his purging earlier where still present in his mouth, he could taste and feel it. They should prevent the acid from eating away at him. Sometimes being the government and an amazing scientist was extremely useful.

Mycroft washed his mouth out several times, once with a small amount of soap, to try to get the traces of sick off him. He popped a piece of gum into his mouth, relief filling him as the minty taste and smell overpowered that of the vomit. Luckily he had not gotten any on his clothes. Looking himself in the mirror, satisfied that he looked presentable, Mycroft started making his way back to the table.


	27. What to do

**A/N: Please check the last chapter if you haven't already. It is the correct document now, sorry for the mix up, my phone crashed on me when I was publishing (yes that's right I write this on my phone because I don't have a laptop ;-;).**

Once Sherlock's tears had slowed to a stop, John pulled back and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair soothingly "We should get ourselves cleaned up a bit before Mycroft comes, we don't want to make him worry." Sherlock nodded and sat back in his chair, sniffing and wiping his eyes. After a deep breath he managed to recompose himself, the only hint he'd been crying was the red tint to his eyes. John gave him an encouraging smile "Ill go get us both tea, yeah? They had gingernuts too, I'll grab a couple packs."

Sherlock just nodded rubbing a hand over his face. He was honestly completely distraught. He kept on trying to process the facts: Mycroft, eating disorder. It just didn't connect. Mycroft had always been his strong, talented, self assured, kind, clever big brother. Mycroft was that sturdy thing Sherlock could hold onto when the whole world felt like it was crumbling around him.

Mycroft was soft and warm, hugging him better, telling him everything would be okay and when he said it it meant it was true because he was Mycroft, he'd make it true. Mycroft was strong and determined, protecting Sherlock relentlessly from the most dangerous of foes no matter what. How could Mycroft have an eating disorder? How could Mycroft have bulimia?

That implied that he was insecure and upset and hurting and depressed and how could Mycroft be those things? Amazing, brilliant in every way Mycroft? How could someone as outstandingly brilliant in every way as Mycroft be insecure and upset? How could someone as cherished and loved as Mycroft be hurting and depressed? How could this happen to Mycroft? Why is this happening to Mycroft?! Sherlock took another deep breath to stop himself from losing it. He needed to keep it together. For Mycroft.

Honestly the fact that Mycroft was going through this, whatever 'this' was, was absolutely tragic. There was no other way Sherlock could describe it. Mycroft was the last person who deserved to have to go through this. Sherlock had seen the signs for ages and he knew what was happening but at the same time when he had denied it to John he had been truthful, speaking what he believed. He had actually not known about it and yet know he did know he realised he always had.

It didn't make sense and Sherlock hated that, especially since it was happening within his own precious brain. Quite frankly this was scaring him. Logically he knew it was natural, his reaction, but the voices within him where sounding the alarms that what had happened when he was a child with Eurus was happening again.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, Mycroft did not deserve this and it was absolutely horrible and wrong that this was happening to him and Sherlock would do absolutely EVERYTHING in his power to help him get better.

John returned soon with two cups of tea and packets of biscuits, handing some to Sherlock who took it gratefully. Sherlock sipped at his tea and tried to relax, letting the hot liquid overrun him. Sherlock could see the warm smile John gave him as they drank their tea, John squeezing Sherlock's knee. Sherlock was grateful to John for the affection he was showing but a nagging voice inside him said it was just out of pity, just to make him feel better about himself after he beat Sherlock up.

At the reminder of the events at the hospital Sherlock grimaced, taking a sharp intake of breath. John looked at him slightly alarmed "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?" He murmured gently. Sherlock nodded in response, his heart beating loudly. John took Sherlock's hand again "Sherlock, whatever it is it's not true, okay? Remember the dark thoughts aren't true. They will try to take you over, warp reality and alter facts, don't let it. You can fight it, Sherlock, it's not real." Sherlock took a deep breath before nodding, pushing the thoughts away "Yeah. Thanks." He said though he kept a grip on John's hand and the said man didn't falter his hold either.

It was then that they saw Mycroft approaching. Sherlock's heart clenched and he had to regulate his breathing carefully so he wouldn't start hyperventilating. His eyes instantly scanned Mycroft's form. As John had pointed out his eyes were dotted with red, his knuckles raw with cuts, his designer fitted clothes hung a bit too lose off his frame and his skin was pale, the purple bags under his eyes being an exception. Over all he looked shit. How had he not noticed before? But then, of course, to some extent he had.

But all in all for someone who had supposedly just spent a good time hunched over a toilet throwing up he looked pretty good. Sherlock had no doubt that Mycroft had spent some considerable amount of time grooming himself before emerging once again so no one would become concerned about him. Suddenly Sherlock realised that he had no idea what to say.

As John rightfully pointed out, they couldn't just call Mycroft out on it, the man would be mortified. And he couldn't question him or fuss over him because Mycroft would become very suspicious and close himself off. But then what was there left to do? Because how the hell sad he supposed to act like everything's normal?

John bit his lip as he watched Sherlock, trying to decipher what on earth was going on in that amazing head of his. He hoped very much that Sherlock wouldn't snap and confront Mycroft. But it was to late to verbally remind the curly haired man of it because Mycroft had arrived.

Mycroft sat down silently, making no move to start conversation though he looked uncomfortably aware of the attention he was getting. After a moments shifting uncomfortable under silent scrutiny Mycroft spoke "You have been crying, brother mine. What is the matter?" Sherlock looked slightly startled, over all of his worry for his brother he had forgotten that he himself had been crying and of course Mycroft would pick up on that.

"Nothing, brother, I'm fine now. I've just been having a lot of… dark moods after everything that's happened. One overcame me just before and it was a bit more than I could handle." Mycroft looked at him with pity and care "Oh dear, are you alright? Is there anything I can do to help?" Mycroft asked, brows drawn together in concern. Sherlock pursed his lips "Well… no, I couldn't ask that of you. You shouldn't feel obliged to do anything." Sherlock responded. Mycroft quickly shook his head "No, Sherlock, I want to help however I can. Tell me." Sherlock nodded, blushing softly "Could you please spend more time with us. You've always been the person to comfort and protect me, your presence helps a lot." Mycroft looked surprised at the request but smiled and nodded "Of course, Sherlock."


	28. Returned coat

The three men sat and chatted for a little while longer. Conversation wasn't very meaningful or intense but it was pleasant and light, everyone smiled and laughed and sometimes they actually meant it. When John and Sherlock went off on their own little tangent Mycroft let himself zone out, not at prey to the dark thoughts, however, which was nice. That was until he was suddenly snapped back to reality.

"…Lestrade so we have to work independently until he gets into the station tomorrow." John scoffed "'Independent', like you ever do anything else." "I'm sorry, what was that about Lestrade? I zoned out. Didn't sleep much last night. Paperwork, potential national crises you know how it is." It was probably just paranoia, a trait he'd had for as long as he could remember, but Mycroft could have sworn Sherlock and John exchanged a look when he mentioned not sleeping.

"I was talking about this case. Old lady's hand bag was stolen, found fifteen minutes later on the other side of London after being used to kill a man. I was saying how John and I would have to investigate alone because Lestrade isn't working. Of course, it's not currently his shift but normally he doesn't actually do anything else, what with being a divorced man with no close family and little friends outside of work. Today he was going to the pub on Octave lane. His football team is playing today, big match going from the fact his shirt was-"

Sherlock continued to talk but Mycroft had long finished listening. So he knew where Lestrade was, what's the big deal? He always knew he could find him at the station, and he could always call him, so what was the big deal? And the man hadn't even talked to him in days, but why should he? He wasn't Mycroft's friend, they weren't working together on anything or temporarily united in some common cause or anything of the likes. Why should he care that he knew where Lestrade was this lunch time? But then, since he DID know he should probably make use of the fact, drop by. Besides, he still had to return Lestrade's coat.

If Sherlock and John noticed the weird almost feverish glisten to Mycroft's eyes that was there for the little time before they all parted ways, neither said anything.

Mycroft cursed himself for not having kept the coat with him wherever he went. After all you never knew when you'd run into someone, their time in the park was evidence of that. But the fact was he hadn't taken the coat with him so it was still at his house. Mycroft set off on the journey back home. He jogged it since he really could use the exercise and he didn't want to be too long getting to the pub or Greg may be gone. Since football matches lasted a little while he should be fine.

But the time he got home, Mycroft was sweating and gasping for breath. He had actually managed to run the whole way home! It felt amazing. Aware that he must smell, Mycroft had a quick shower, coughing frequently from the strain running had on his lungs. After making himself presentable again, perhaps a little more groomed than usual for no specific reason, Mycroft picked up the coat. He held it to his chest, it still smelt strongly of the man who owned it. He felt a pang of something at the thought of giving it back but then, of course he had to give it back. And he could see Gregory too.

So with that thought Mycroft set off out the door. He hailed a cab since he didn't want to miss Lestrade and really it wasn't very decent for him to be sweaty, red and out of breath when he arrived. Besides, he had exercised all the way back home which Mycroft was very proud of. The cab drive was not very long and Mycroft saw some of the streets he had taken ages jogging down pass by in seconds. He silently vowed to himself that he would take up jogging again, this time actually venturing outside rather than sticking to his treadmill. He could get his speed and distance up far higher than it currently was.

Once the cab pulled up at the end of the street, Mycroft climbed out paying the driver before he departed. Now that Mycroft was there he started to feel a bit apprehensive. What was he doing? Gregory had come to the pub to relax and watch a match while having a pint, possibly with friends. Who was he to intrude? But then he did have the coat. He really should have just given him the coat when he was at work, pop by and return it. Or even drop it off at reception. What the hell was he doing? But he was here, and it was a cold day so Greg really ought to have a coat. And all he would do is go in, hand over the coat, leave. Simple. Not intruding, he'd be out of the way in a jiffy.

Mycroft took a deep breath and quickened his strides to the door. The pub was a friendly little one. Very local but homely, it was the type where you could go in and not feel unwelcome but unless you knew all the people and where a regular customer you where a bit of a third wheel. No matter, Mycroft wasn't staying. Just dropping by. Just returning the coat.

Mycroft was nearly at the door when he saw Gregory inside. The man looked amazing. He was wearing a football shirt and had a massive smile, clearly very happy and enthusiastic. He was holding two pints of beer and carrying them from the bar. Mycroft watched as he walked, it would be rude to intercept the man before he had reached his table after all. A few more seconds and Lestrade was back at his table and…

And he sat down next to a lady who was wearing the same football shirt, her brown hair pulled up into a pony tail, and he handed her the other pint. Lestrade smiled happily at the girl who smiled back and he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into a kiss.

Mycroft fell back from the window, recoiling from the place. He took a few shaky steps backwards before turning around and running.


	29. Freak

**A/N: Okay I'm just gonna say it now, THIS IS A JOHNLOCK MYSTRADE FANFIC if you don't ship either of them I would advise you not to read and please do not comment for the concern of your fellow readers who do ship them, if you** ** _do_** **ship them you're welcome XD Also this will contain sex! EXCEPT this website does not allow sexual content therefore this will be a sensored version because I really don't want my account to be blocked I love writing. The uncensored version is on archive of our own because they allow sexual content.**

Mycroft ran. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, disregarding the pain that steadily grew around his body. He had no idea where he was going but did it matter? He didn't let any thoughts fill him, he blocked them all out before they even had a chance to form. But he couldn't quite block out the emotions yet without thoughts the emotions didn't mean anything. For now he would just run.

Mycroft didn't know how long he ran for but eventually he could take it no longer. Gasping for breath he slowed to a wobbly walk, quickly trying to get out of the way of the pedestrian traffic. Mycroft walked through a couple of allies, supporting himself on a wall. He soon came to a little park.

Park was a generous word for it, this was more like a mess of overgrown brambles with a couple of dead and dying trees, a few benches and a children's climbing frame that was half knocked down and vandalised. It was absolutely nothing to the park he had visited with Greg. Try as he might Mycroft could not bring himself to view this place with the same romanticism and appreciation he had spoken to the police inspector of when the feeling of the man's arms catching him from falling, holding him safe and tight, was still so rich in his mind.

Mycroft limped over to the bench that looked the sturdiest and didn't have any suspicious coloured stains. He collapsed onto it with a gasp, the wood creaking. He knew it now. It was so very obvious really, he'd just never actually accepted it consciously. He was in love with Greg Lestrade. It was honestly so very stupid of him, he barely even knew the man. Although of course he had KNOWN him for a good twenty years at the least by now. But still it was pathetic of him, a man shows him a bit of kindness and suddenly he's in love with them? It was honestly disgusting of him. He was so pathetic.

And really it was so very stupid of him to fall in love with Greg Lestrade, he was a nice, handsome, charming, intelligent man with a good job and nice friends. What gave a fat, cynical, cold, detestable, worthless man like him the right to love someone as amazing as Gregory Lestrade? Besides, he was probably straight. That was a thought that hadn't occurred to Mycroft before, he'd gotten so used to people around him being bisexual or gay like himself that he hadn't considered the possibility Greg would be straight. But then, it was actually more likely he was.

The image of Greg's lips meeting that girls flashed across his mind again and it became all he could see. She was pretty, very pretty. Her smile and eyes said she was an energetic, enthusiastic and loving person, her general clothing said she was very active, clearly a football fanatic and supporting Greg's team too. Greg seemed to really like her. She was probably a lot more worthy of that amazing man's presence than Mycroft.

That made his mood darken even more. Every single person who came near him he hurt or made miserable or just generally negatively influenced. Of course Greg was an amazing person, he'd actually put up with Mycroft's presence for a whole afternoon. He'd been kind, he'd saved him from falling, given him food and lent him his coat. Greg Lestrade was an absolutely brilliant man. That was the curse of it, any person who wasted their time with him was obviously a very good person since he was the most hateful, detestable charity case there was. He mustn't let himself forget that. He mustn't pretend that the way he thought they were amazing and really just wanted to spend time with them and chat with them was a mutual feeling. He mustn't forget that while those who were nice to him where amazing human beings he remained a worthless piece of shit.

He was a failure. His own parents hated him! If they weren't so nice they would have probably disowned him after all he'd done. And in fact Mycroft might have preceded that because it hurt less than having to be so close but at the same time completely cut off. His mum and dad could barely look him in the eyes, his brother made the fact he was only putting up with his presence because he had to very clear and he didn't have friends, he never had. Well, he had people he considered friends but the feeling was never mutual.

Mycroft clawed at his head, his fingers pulling at his hair desperately. Why could he never do anything right? What was wrong with him? What had he done that everyone found so detestable? What made him this way, why was he so inhuman? Why him? Why couldn't he be normal? Why did he have to be such a freak? Why didn't he know what he'd done wrong? If he was even slightly human he should be able to see what it is he'd always done wrong that meant everyone was repelled. Mycroft's grief burned inside him powering a fiery anger. Although he was angry at no one other than himself. He truly was disgusting.

The man was walking on swaying legs to the place he always went. That place him and his 'friends' went when they needed to hit up without the coppers down their backs. But there was someone already there. At first his blood boiled at the thought that some random little fuck thought they could come here. All them people with their cars and their houses and their families and their jobs, didn't they own enough without taking this as well?

But then upon a closer look a grin burst into his face. This man was clearly rich. He could get a fortune just by stripping him of all his clothes and selling them. And he probably had money, lots of it in his pockets, along with other expensive indulgent things. He might even keep a thing or too if he really liked them. And maybe he could tie him up, hold a knife to his throat, make him pay to leave with his life.

His wicked grin widened. The man got to the back entrance of the little park, standing in the shadow of the dead oak tree. Looking closer he saw this was gonna be even easier than he thought. The man was clearly bloody hammered, face red, eyes disorientated and collapsed on a bench. It made him smile seeing posh'uns get drunk. What did they get drunk for? They had everything. And when they got drunk they looked like fat little pigs. He reached for the shank in his pocket, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hand. He would make this little piggy squeal…

A deafening crack sounded, wood splintering everywhere, accompanied by a raging scream. The man looked up, trembling with fear. There was the strange rich man standing above the remains of what had been the bench he was lying on. It was now a splintered mess, blood dripping messily down his fist and arm. There was a seconds silence where all he could hear was the sound of the rich man's panting. Then there was another crash and he hit the wood with his other fist. He got into a rhythm of punches, left right left right crash crash crash crash.

The man scrambled quickly away, running as fast as he could away. "Bloody men'al, you are!" He cried as he fled. To his great relief the man never discovered he'd been there. Honestly he didn't know WHAT that bench had done but he pitied it.


	30. Denial

At last Mycroft collapsed through his front door. Looking back upon that evening Mycroft would have marvelled at the impossibility of him executing the feat of walking home that night. He had not eaten and kept down any food for days, his body was exhausted from having ran far too much and blood refused to stop dripping down his arms. But at that moment Mycroft had achieved what he'd been longing for that evening: the ability to stop thinking.

Right then he could not understand the fact his body should not be able to still be awake, let alone walk home. He did not register the fact that his body was running on the feeble movements of his muscles fuelled by adrenaline. He couldn't feel the pain in his hands which was probably for the best. He just moved on automatic, systematically and finally, after however long it took, Mycroft finally arrived home.

Inside was when Mycroft was forced to start to deal with everything. Now the endless expanse of featureless tarmac had gone and he was standing inside his own house, his body still buzzing but with nothing to do. It was then that the pain and exhaustion hit him. Mycroft let out a strangled scream as the nerves in his hands burnt viciously, sending shocks through his entire body. He collapsed to the floor, his legs giving way. Mycroft's ears pounded and his vision swirled. He was exhausted. There was no point in fighting the darkness that was so steadily consuming him. Mycroft's eyes rolled back and he gave way to unconsciousness.

Greg Lestrade sighed tiredly, rubbing his hands over his face. He tried to use deep breaths to get rid of the aching in his lower back and the stiffness in his neck. Honestly he was too old to be alone like this. And yet he was alone, always alone. Oh weary traveller, ever to wander around alleys and pubs like some heart throb character in an old film.

But, of course, he was no where near as impressive. Grey hair, not particularly tall, starting to lose the strong shape of a young cop as it faded into a teddy bear type curve instead. Really, he did sound quite sour, all moaning and groaning over nothing. He had a job, he had his health, what more could a man want? He even had a date.

Dating wasn't really something he did since the divorce with his ex wife. He'd had a lot of one night stands at first but the novelty of that had worn out soon. He lacked the willingness to make the commitments relationships tended to require. Even in a one night stand your partner often wants to meet up again some time and honestly Greg was too tired to do it. Maybe it was a sense of precaution after the slow and painful descent of his marriage but Greg knew it was more to do with the fact he just couldn't connect with his potential partners. Pretty women, young women, kind women, what did he have to talk about to them? A weathered and roughed up, calloused detective inspector who's life revolved around work. He wasn't good for them and they were just a bother to him.

But tonight was different. There was this girl, he'd met her through work. She wasn't an officer but she had been in as a witness for an attempted murder in a park. She was a… well there was a long word that he hadn't bothered to memorise but basically she studied plants for the university. Not that she was a university student! Goodness, no. He wasn't the type of guy to go after girls so much younger. She was just three years younger than him.

While she had been waiting in the station before she could be released, just so they didn't have to call her back to be questioned again if they needed her, he and her had started talking. Her name was Samantha Bronwyn, but she insisted he called her Sam. It turned out they both supported the same team, they enthused about football for a good half hour at the least. In the end she had to go but he insisted they met up for the big match a couple days later.

Lestrade didn't know what exactly it was that made Sam different to all of the normal girls he would just politely turn down, he didn't know why he decided to start dating again now (Yes you do ). They connected really well and talking was just so addictive (yeah but not with HER). There was just something really special about him… her (Who are you trying to fool? There's no one here but you). Sam was something special. And he definitely didn't see stunning icy blue eyes, that shone with intelligence but contained an undeniable warmth within, every time he closed his eyes. Lestrade shook his head as I to physically ward off the thoughts. He'd better bloody get a move on if he didn't want to miss the start of the match!

Unfortunately Lestrade had nothing to do but listen to his thoughts when he sat on the bus, waiting for the pub's stop. It was about time he got back in the dating game! Otherwise he would get old and kiss his chance, he'd already become grey. It was nothing to do with Mycroft in the park, if anything it might have subconsciously jogged his thoughts seeing a couple kissing on a bench or something at the most, it had nothing to do with that amazing, brilliant, drop dead gorgeous man.

That intelligent, sexy man who thinking of in any way beyond platonic felt like breaking the law. He was untouchable. So superior in every way, he was even the bloody government! A man as common and dull and useless as Lestrade had no right to think of such an amazing man in so scandalous a way. He was probably straight anyway. Actually he was probably asexual now he came to think of it, when had Mycroft ever shown any sexual interest in another person before?

All in all Greg really should not let himself think of Mycroft Holmes as more than an acquaintance and a man whom he admired. Which was good. Because Greg DIDN'T think of him as anything else. And thinking about him, Mycroft bloody Holmes, the way he had looked up at him through dropping eyelids with his intelligent blue eyes, his whole demeanour looking ruffled yet still so perfect after waking up in the park, had definitely not just made Greg hard in the middle of public transport. Definitely not.

Lestrade crossed his legs, shifting his body so that the old lady next to him would not see. This was definitely not the affect so much as thinking about Mycroft had on him. Fuck he needed a distraction, to get away from those unhealthy thoughts. Something for him, a lower middle class police inspector, to settle on rather than having unrealistic fantasies. But that was definitely not why he was going on this date with Sally. Sandra…? Sam. Yeah, he was dating Sam because she was a pretty woman with a nice personality and a shared love of pubs and football.

This was going to be a nice evening with just him and Sam having some nice time to get to know each other, surrounded by the lads with a pint in their hands and the football on high. It was definitely not thinking about being with Samantha but something thankfully made his cock soft again. Whatever it was he was thankful because he did not want to be hit with that old lady's stick.


	31. Greg's date

It was with a significant degree of reluctance that Mycroft awoke once again. The rush that he had been running of before had completely faded leaving Mycroft feeling like a consciousness limply clinging onto a corpse. He couldn't move he was too exhausted so he was stuck with nothing but the thoughts he wanted so badly to rid himself of. He wasn't even hurting anymore, well he was hurting, he was hurting everywhere, but it was a dull and constant ache.

Mycroft remembered with a content feeling the way that everything had disappeared when he punched the bench. He was no longer the failure son, a burden to know, who hurts everyone he loves and is unable to do anything right. He didn't have to deal with the vivid recap of every single failure of his life and the way everyone hated him for it. He didn't have to deal with anything.

The pain wasn't like anything he'd ever encountered before. Well it was the same as always of course. Exactly what you would expect to happen if one were to break a piece of wood with their bare fists. But then there was something new, something odd, something amazing. Maybe it was because he had accepted that he really deserved all the pain that came his way. Punching the bench wasn't enough, it would never be enough. He deserved to suffer more pain than this world could provide, more pain than any mortal body could withstand.

And all the thoughts went away too. As his skin broke, nerves shooting shocks of pain through his body as blood started to drip, he was getting what he deserved. All he could see, head, think, feel was pain. It made it a bit easier to handle the facts of everything he'd done. While pain was still racking his body that was. As soon as it stopped he felt like a coward, trying to escape his set punishment. It made the thoughts burn a thousand times more. With broken skin and blood dripping down down his body Mycroft could actually look his 'friends' and family in the eye, if only for a bit.

Mycroft's breath hitched as an intense urge filled him. An outrageous urge. Too preposterous to humour even for a second. But then… it really was for the best. And besides no one would know and even if they did they wouldn't care… Mycroft got shakily to his feet, walking to his kitchen with quick strides. When there he threw open the cutlery draw and picked up a knife. Mycroft took in a ragged breath to calm his nerves and sturdy his hands before he pressed the knife against his skin.

Greg walked across to the pub front looking around for Sam. Maybe she wasn't going to show up… Greg mused over that for a while with a weird satisfaction at the thought. Well he should probably just go straight in, if she arrived later she would check inside. As he walked in, Greg was greeted by Sam's grinning face "Heya, sexy." She beamed, pulling him into a kiss. Greg smiled back "Well hello there. You look beautiful this afternoon." And it was true, she looked absolutely effortlessly stunning with her delicate features, enthusiastic smile and lively clothes.

She looked even cuter with the little blush that spreader over her cheeks "Thank you. I was starting to think you'd stood me up!" She said with a teasing tone but there was a little seriousness in her eyes. Greg gave her a reassuring smile although he felt himself becoming defensive and for some reason guilty even though he hadn't done a thing wrong "Of course not, darling. A date with you, watching the match, a couple pints in my favourite pub, wouldn't miss this for the world!" (Not the world… the British government would do just fine). Greg scowled to himself. He could not be thinking about him right now! He had absolutely no chances so he shouldn't ever think about it. He was on a date with a nice girl, that's all he had to concentrate on right now.

"Earth to Gregy. Ey, he's with us again! You kinda zoned out for a second there, buddy. Tell ya what, you go get us a couple pints and I'll find a table, yeah?" Greg nodded. Had she just called him 'Gregy'? Bloody hell, he'd take Sherlock's name forgetting any day. All the name anyone needed to know or use is 'Greg' nothing else. Except for a certain sexy posh voice calling him 'Gregory' but that was another matter entirely. And one he did not want to think about right now.

Greg sighed and walked over to the bar. His team was playing tonight and they were gonna win by miles. That brought a smile to Greg's face as he went to the bar to hug w beer for each of them. After obtaining them, Greg looked around to see where Sam had found a table. He was distracted for a moment as he saw a shape in the window. He was going to relook but a smiling, waving Sam caught his attention. Greg grinned and sat down next to her. The shape could have been anything, probably just a passer by or a customer, in short not his problem.

"Why thank you kind sir!" Sam said dramatically, taking her pint glass "However shall I repay you?" She purred, leaning closer to him. Greg leaned forward slightly too and Ellet their lips meet in a deeper kiss than any that the pair had shared yet. She was wild and confident, biting and sucking at his lips and tongue. Greg met her movements with all the enthusiasm he could muster as he tried to convince himself this is what he wanted and ignore the feeling of something being off.

Honestly the kissing just felt tedious and embarrassing for the both of them. It was clumsy and forced. But maybe that was just how it felt to him because Sam seemed to be enjoying herself considerably. It really must be something wrong with him. Ten years earlier and Greg would have been all for this but here he was getting BORED as a beautiful lady had her tongue in his mouth? Honestly there really was something bloody wrong with him. But then acknowledging that didn't change it.

Greg let his eyes wander to the window, he might as well make some use of this time. The shape was still there and… Greg pulled back from the kiss abruptly. Sam looked at him, not trying to hide her hurt "Greg? Is something wrong? Was I-" Greg cut her off "No, no, it's just, uh, thought I saw a guy. This, um, criminal who we are currently interrogating. If the accusations are correct, which we are pretty certain they are, he's one scary man. It wasn't him, obviously, just being a police officer for as long as home does have its toll on a man. Often quite hard to get your head out of work."

Sam looked slightly relieved at the explanation "Oh, right. Yes, sorry, that does make sense." Greg nodded "Yes, I'm terribly sorry but I have to go. Now I've got that guy in my head I won't be able to think of anything else. It'd be best if we don't try it like this, I'm really sorry. Another time, once this case is over and that man is behind locked bars I'll be much more focused. But for now… ya know. I'd best go back to the office, it's probably the only place I'll be of use." Greg got up from his seat and kissed Sam, who looked flustered, on the cheek before leaving.

Greg sighed, running a hand over his face. Why had he thought this was a good idea? He'd known he wasn't in it yet he'd still went along with it. And now he'd led the poor girl on. He guessed he'd hoped that if he just did it he'd get into it and everything would be easier but of course that wouldn't happen. He would have to work out how to tell Sam it was through later.

Mycroft. That was all that Greg could think of at the moment. That figure in the window… had obviously not been Mycroft. But it had reminded him of the man. Smart suit, brown hair, tall, umbrella. Of course, in London that was pretty much every single man there was but to Greg it just made him think of Mycroft. Thinking of Mycroft in that moment as he kissed Sam made him realise, or more finally stop ignoring, the fact that he longed for those lips to be Mycroft's.

He could imagine Mycroft's lips against his, soft and sweet. He would be tentative at first probably but Greg would wrap his arm around the man's waist to encourage him that it was okay. He would be more sure as his confidence grew and soon he would be taking the lead of the kiss, touching all the spots that made Greg feel so amazing. He would memorise Greg's reactions and calculate the perfect ways to make him moan. And…

Greg shook himself. He couldn't think like that about Mycroft, he just couldn't. But giving in to his mind and letting himself play out vivid fantasies in his mind just felt amazing, it felt real. Yet it could never be as amazing as the real thing would be. No matter now it played out, whether it was like in his fantasies or something he didn't predict Greg knew it would be amazing. Of course he could tell himself it was wrong to think such things but that didn't stop his mind from doing so. He gave in, there was no stopping his fantasies. But he could definitely not think about them in the middle of the road! For the second time that day Greg was hiding an erection and once again it was due to a certain Mycroft Holmes.

Greg wondered around London for a while, his erection dissipating soon. In time he decided to go to the yard like he had said he would. He walked through the front doors and was about to pass out of reception when a voice stopped him "Detective Inspector Lestrade? There was a delivery for you." Greg frowned, walking over to the desk "You sure?" "Yes, sir, it was delivered a little while ago this evening." Greg braced himself, being a police inspector wasn't the safest of jobs. It could be a threat or a bomb or… what the receptionist handed over to him hurt more than any bomb ever could, and Greg could even explain why. It was his coat.


	32. Self harm

It was only after his arm was burning viciously, his hand shaking, that Mycroft decided to look at the damage. There were neat lines traced up his arm, each was ten cm wide and there were seven in total. Mycroft laughed softly, even in something like this he was still being calculating. Blood was still dripping freely out of each of them, pooling together to make one little stream as the red liquid dripped down his arm.

This was bad. Mycroft knew it was bad, very bad, cutting himself, making himself bleed. But then, it wasn't like it was with other people, this was different. He was truly a horrible, horrible person, he'd seen and done things most people couldn't even dream of. Most people who self harmed were lost and beautiful people who had been on the unfortunate end of life but not him. He was the type of person who drove others to self harm, he was the type of person who ruined lives. He was the type of person who deserved to bleed, deserved to hurt. He deserved far worse than those petty seven cuts.

But there was something else about cutting he found, aside from deserving to hurt. When the knife pierced his skin and pain burned through his body it actually made things a little better. It sounded insane and maybe he was but for the first time since, well, probably before Sherlock's fake suicide, definitely since the Eurus incident, it hurt a little less. Well that wasn't true it hurt just as much, even more so he was bleeding after all, but he could deal with everything easier.

A part of that was because he was finally starting to be punished for everything he had done, of course no pain on this world would be able to hurt him as much as he deserved but it was a start, another thing was that all he could think about was the pain. Not the pain of being hated by his family or the pain of being abandoned by everyone he deemed a friend but the simple pain of his skin being broken. And that was good.

It was certainly better than the drugs Sherlock pumped his veins with. Drugs and alcohol and smoking where all a release but Mycroft didn't deserve that, he didn't deserve to be able to numb his pain because the pain he had was just a little helping of what he should be feeling, he deserved to increase the pain not numb it and that's what he was doing.

Now he really could agree to Sherlock's request to stay around more. He could talk to his little brother, spend time with him, look him in the eye without feeling the crushing guilt. Without feeling like he was tainting the boy. It was hard being around other people, especially the ones he cared about. Every cold glare, every subtle insult, every look that said they hadn't forgotten what he'd done. Every time he said something or did something that everyone but him knew was wrong.

He could face them all now, he didn't have to avoid them, hide from them, he could stop hiding inside his house and inside his work. There would always be the dull sting of his wrist to remind him that he could deal with all his stupid, inhuman flaws. The dull sting in his wrist that told him he only had to wait a little longer and he would be able to hurt like he deserved to.

It hurt. It hurt thinking about everything, thinking about this. He was too conflicted. On one hand he knew that self harm was bad full stop, on the other he felt that he deserved the pain. The pain made him forget, it made coping easier for him which was good but contradictory he didn't want that because he deserved to hurt, he didn't deserve his coping to be easy. But then cutting was hurting and hurting was good. And so many other thoughts and that was just on the self harm itself not the reasons why doing it was something he even considered.

He didn't want to think right now, thinking burnt too bad. And he didn't have to think, not right now. Not while his arm was throbbing as sharp shocks of pain shot through him. He didn't have to think, for once in his life his brain was shut off, all of those rules and laws and worries and responsibilities were shut away, they wouldn't come back while the pain was still so strong unless he wanted them to.

He might as well make use of this while he could. He could think about it later, figure out what was right for him and wrong, what approach to self harm he would take. But anyway, he didn't have much choice in the matter since the pain really was quite strong. It made thinking rather hard. Mycroft surrendered himself to the merciful thoughtless pain.

"Sherlock are you okay?" Sherlock started, having been staring at nothing in particular deep in thought for quite some time "What?" He asked slightly disorientated. John shook his head and walked over to the sofa Sherlock was lying on, sitting in a space. "I asked if you were okay, Sherlock, you seem a bit out of it." He repeated, frowning as he watched his best friend in concern.

Sherlock nodded, running his hands over his face and shaking himself off "Yes, sorry, yeah I'm fine. I was just-" "Thinking about Mycroft?" John guessed, sympathetically. Sherlock nodded, rolling into his side "He has no one, John, just me. And I hardly every give him any of my time, even when I do it's barely civil. I just… if he gets hurt…" Sherlock sighed "Bulimia. I can't believe it. Mycroft, bulimia! I'm afraid, John, afraid that it's not just bulimia. It's never only an eating disorder, it comes hand in hand with other things, bad things. Things I don't want Mycroft to have to deal with.

"He's hurting and I need to help him. I should have already been helping him, caring about him. I'm all he has. I used to think ages ago that it was because he didn't want friends, back when I was alone myself. But of course he doesn't want to be alone. I don't know exactly what he's going through or what he's gone through. Maybe he doesn't have friends because he's afraid of them hurting him or maybe he doesn't because he's afraid of hurting them, I don't know what it is but no one truly wants to be alone. No one should have to be.

Maybe if he had friends they would have been able to be there for him and this wouldn't be happening but he doesn't. I need to help him, I need to care for him like I should have been doing all this time. I can't have him thinking I don't love him because I do I love him so damn much, he is one of the people I care about the most in the universe I would do anything to keep him happy and safe, but I can never fucking say it to his face!"

John listened patiently as Sherlock spoke. He at the last part he started sobbing softly "Why can't I say it to his face, John? 'I love you, big brother' just one little sentence. One little sentence that would help him so much, that is so obvious but I'm afraid that he still doesn't see it because I never bloody say it!" John caught Sherlock's hand and squeezed it gently, edging closer so he could hug Sherlock tightly.

"Sherlock, I'm sure he knows. He might not know how much and he might not understand why but he knows you love him. None of this is your fault and you will help him. But you won't do that on your own. I care about him too, tell that to me back when I first met him and I would have laughed in your face but honestly I didn't exactly know him back then. You and I can both help him.

"But you don't need to think about it constantly. I know that sounds mean and I don't mean it like that I just mean that this is upsetting you and you have to remember it's not your fault. Stressing over this won't be of any use to him, you have to look after yourself before you start looking after him, Sherlock, it'll be beneficial to both of you. But we will help him, he won't have to go through this forever we will help him work through this, whatever this is."

Sherlock nodded, wiping his eyes. John smiled softly to him and sat up, pulling away. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he caught John's sleeve, looking away at John's questioning look "I… Can you stay with me for a little? It's just…" John nodded, understanding what he could not put into words, and lay down next to him.


	33. Hide

Shit. This was bad. The burning rush of pain had finally faded away and with it Mycroft was forced to think. And the first thing he realised was that he now had seven very obvious bright red cuts on his arm. Of course it's not like there was anyone around to see them and there wouldn't be anyone in the future either and even when he was around other people they wouldn't see his bare arm under anyway but he couldn't risk someone finding this out. Of course, being one of the most powerful men alive meant that he could have it treated so that they would be gone without so much as a scar in a matter of days and he could even treat himself with his knowledge.

But if he hadn't been so stupid as to cut himself somewhere so obvious in the first place then he wouldn't even have to try hiding it now. Mycroft thought back to when he'd cut himself and honestly he wasn't very surprised that he had made such a slip up, he hadn't really been in the best state. But in his position in life you couldn't afford to make slip ups of any kind, especially one like this.

Mycroft sighed heavily to himself. It was late and his instincts said he should sleep now, leave the treatment of his wounds until tomorrow but Mycroft knew the importance of treating cuts straight away to prevent scarring. He got out his small medical kit and cleaned the wounds thoroughly before deciding they needed stitches. He honestly hadn't intended to cut so deeply but they seemed in no hurry to stop bleeding of their own accord and they did look quite deep.

Mycroft started the stitching himself, he had expert medical knowledge naturally. It hurt but that wasn't a problem to him on the contrary Mycroft made a mental note to try needle pricks as a more subtle way of self harm, perhaps one to use when he was out. Have a needle or a pin in his pocket to jab his hand with if need be.

Once he had finished the stitching, Mycroft looked over his work and nodded with satisfaction. This combined with some later treatment and there wouldn't even be any scars. He gave the broken skin a generous dosage of an experimental concoction he had been working on, Mycroft had been looking for an opportunity to test it out, it seemed like he'd found one.

It was basically a liquid that he'd used research and samples from stem cells and tumour cells to speed up skin growth and repair in a controlled way. He used a very low concentration since he just wanted the necessary stitch time to lessen. Normally he wouldn't use all of this treatment since it made the cuts hurt less but he could not risk anyone seeing. When he cut next time he would do it in the back of his lower calf and maybe in other places in disbursed ways.

Understanding the sound patterns of different inflictions, accidental or purposeful, had many uses and now Mycroft had found another because he could make as many cuts as he wanted to in obvious places and make them look so perfectly like some certain accidental cause that no one would look twice. But he would still stick to cutting in unseen places then he didn't even have to bother making them disguised.

He wasn't a shorts person so anywhere on his legs would do, hips where somewhere no one would see since he was not in a romantic relationship. The underside of his feet, perhaps, when he wanted the pain to be more prominent and last longer. And then there where ways to hurt himself that didn't involve a knife. There was a whole psychology behind the way that people didn't want to see self harm. If there where a series of cuts up someone's wrist then no one could deny the fact that it was self harm but burn marks? Fingernail clawing? Bite marks? No one saw self harm when it was easier to blame something else.

Mycroft shook his head and started to pack away the medical supplies. He looked at his arms, the cuts where all neatly cared for. It was then that he remembered his injures from the bench, he had been so distracted by fear of his cuts being found that he had forgotten about all the wounds from the bench. He reopened the medical box and got out a tweezers and needle, he had a lot of splinters on both hands and arms. Picking them out was a long and tedious task. Mycroft then dabbed over the whole area with medical disinfectant and wrapped both arms vaguely with bandage gauze.

Mycroft smiled to himself. That was an example of subtle self harm. Plain sight. People would see the cuts, might make a few curious or pitying comments about them but then they'd forget. The cuts left behind where random and inconsistent, no blade had made that and therefore people assumed that he could not have inflicted them upon himself. Mycroft's arms both hurt. They stung and where throbbing, pain shooting through him at every movement of them. But it was good. He just couldn't explain why but it was. He knew the pain was good, it was the only thing that was good. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing he was doing right. Mycroft took a deep breath to try to drag himself out of where his thoughts were heading. There was no time for that now. He needed sleep.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He could tell that the younger man was almost asleep. Sherlock was pressed up close against John's chest as he drifted off to sleep. It was understandable, John thought to himself, that Sherlock would start acting like this, seeking physical and verbal comfort more often. He had gone through a lot, far too much even for him, and that would take its toll on the poor man. So it was understandable all of the physical contact they'd been making recently. All the hugs and hand holding and comforting and now this. Lying together as Sherlock slept. It was all normal, all to be expected.

John sighed, holding Sherlock closer. He still had not forgiven himself for how he had treated Sherlock. He had been hurting and the way he had dealt with it was absolutely unacceptable. He had turned that hurt into anger and rage and lashed out at his friends, Sherlock in particular. He hurt Sherlock when Sherlock needed him the most. He pushed Sherlock away, distanced himself, when they both needed each other more than ever before.

And then there was the hospital. He had hurt Sherlock. He'd hurt him badly, kicked him and punched him and just kept on going and going even when he saw Sherlock's pale skin turn purple and red and blue under his fist, even when he saw blood dripping to the floor. He was a doctor. It wasn't like he didn't know what damage he was causing to his friend. John knew very well what he was doing and yet he didn't stop. And the worst part was Sherlock let him. He even said he deserved it, that John was 'entitled'. And John had looked him in the eyes, his best friend whom had been with him for years and years, and said he had deserved it.

John didn't deserve Sherlock's forgiveness and John certainly didn't deserve the privilege of being the person who Sherlock turned to for comfort. He had done many things, many horrible things, in the army and in his time with Sherlock but nothing even remotely compared to how he had treated Sherlock. No he would never forgive himself for that but he couldn't lose himself to self destruction because Sherlock was hurting too and Mycroft was hurting too. John was not the only human being, the world did not revolve around him. For some reason Sherlock had forgiven him after all the bullshit he'd put him through. John had to suck it up and help his best friend and his brother.


	34. Even I text

"Hello, Anthea?" Mycroft waited for an answer in the other side.

"Yes, sir?" Anthea's ever warm voice asked.

"Have the bottle labelled '3Z12' sent to my house."

"Of course, sir."

Mycroft thanked her and hung up. That was one of the best things about Anthea, she never asked questions. She'd probably decided that considering who her boss was it was best she didn't know. Mycroft smiled gently, he really was fond of the lady even if he had no clue now to show it. She was a fine girl. Mycroft's expression became sadder as he thought about how she was wasted works my for him, that must be a sad existence indeed. It was one she did not deserve but he was too selfish to dismiss her, Mycroft had come to depend very highly on the lady.

Mycroft collapsed back over his sofa with a sigh. Now he was lonely. Although of course he deserved to be lonely but he was just so tired of it. Of course he couldn't impose on Sherlock AGAIN. And Anthea was busy enough without him hassling her and Greg was clearly busy and his parents hated him. So he supposed he'd just have to stay lonely.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed in thought as he unlocked his phone again. He'd remembered a person who had willingly chosen to be closer to him for reasons he couldn't even begin to comprehend. But still. It was rude to keep a lady waiting.

HELLO. THIS IS A TEST TO MAKE SURE YOU GAVE ME A CORRECT NUMBER, IT WOULD BE W BIT TOO LATE TO CHECK IN THE CASE OF AN EMERGENCY I THINK.

MH

EMERGENCY? WHO IS THIS? WHO GAVE YOU MY NUMBER?

Mycroft paled, Lady Smallwood had given him the wrong number. Had she hated him so much that she would take pleasure in humiliating him in such a way? Was this her way of making sure he knew she would never like him? Was this so that he wouldn't call her, so she would be rid of him more often? Mycroft felt a sick feeling creep up from within him.

MYCROFT ITS OKAY. IT IS ME I'M SORRY FOR TEASING YOU. I COULDN'T HELP IT, YOU CAN JUST SAY 'HELLO' NEXT TIME YOU KNOW.

ES

I AM A GENIUS WITH A MENTAL CAPACITY FAR SUPERIOR TO WHAT MOST PEOPLE COULD EVEN BEGIN TO COMPREHEND OF COURSE I KNEW IT WAS YOU.

MH

OF COURSE. DID YOU NEED SOMETHING MYCROFT?

ES

AM I NOT ALLOWED TO TEXF UNLESS I NEED SOMETHING?

MH

OF COURSE YOU'RE ALLOWED, THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU DO.

ES

I SHOULD BE OFFENDED

MH

AND YET YOU'RE FLATTERED

AS

WHY WOULD I BE FLATTERED?

MH

BECAUSE IT'S EVIDENCE THE IMAGE YOU LIKE TO KEEP UP IS WORKING. THAT AND I CARE ENOUGH TO NOTICE.

ES

MAYBE

MH

OOO NOW YOU'RE IMPRESSED THAT I AM ABLE TO TELL WHAT YOU'RE FEELING. NOT ANYTHING PARTICULARLY CLEVER BUT FOR A NORMAL PERSON LIKE ME…

ES

YOU'RE NOT NORMAL

MH

OH REALLY? I'M NOTHING SPECIAL, ESPECIALLY COMPARED TO YOU.

ES

YOU AREN'T NORMAL. I TOLERATE YOUR PRESENCE FOR LEISURE REASONS.

MH

IS THAT YOUR WAY OF SAYING YOU ENJOY MY COMPANY?

ES

ME? ENJOY SOMEONES COMPANY? THAT'S PREPOSTEROUS!

MH

ABSOLUTELY OUTRAGEOUS. SILLY ME, HOW COULD I EVEN THINK SUCH A THING?

ES

SPEAKING OF OUTRAGEOUS…

MH

WHAT IS IT?

ES

WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO OUT TO DINNER WITH ME TOMORROW?

MH

SOUNDS POSITIVELY SCANDALOUS.

ES

SO I SHOULD BOOK A TABLE FOR TWO?

MH

OF COURSE

ES

I'LL PICK YOU UP AT SEVEN THIRTY

MH

IT'S A DATE

ES


	35. Starlight dining

Mycroft looked at himself in the mirror for what seemed like the thousandth time. He didn't like looking at himself in the mirror, in fact he very much detested it, but it would be foolish not to properly present himself, it would avoid a world of problems if he managed to hide some hint that he'd been self harming or purging. There was nothing wrong with it and he wasn't ashamed, apart from being ashamed that he was such a horrible person that doing such things was necessary, it was just that a lot of people wouldn't understand.

Mycroft had dressed to impress, if only subtly. He pulled at his waistcoat. It was hanging slightly loose around his frame. Not loose enough for his liking, it was a very large size. But still, he didn't think there would be much space left after he returned home. He was going out for dinner with Alicia. Of course one good thing about expensive places in the style of the one they were going to was you could rely on the fact that there would be at least one tiny arse meal on offer and it wouldn't be as out of place as a salad.

Mycroft looked at his face. He looked tired and stressed and generally done with everything. That wouldn't do. Mycroft pulled on the mask he wore at work. That was better, his face was cold, a snark superiority in lips, intelligence in his eyes and a hint of softness in his face. That'd do just fine. He put a gentle layer of cream under his eyes to hide the bags, he had lots of means to reinvent ones face available for field work but the less he used the better because then there was less to hide.

Mycroft nodded at himself in the mirror before thankfully walking away from its reflection. It was odd but he was actually quite excited. Elizabeth was a lovely lady and an old friend, he had prized her company for a very long time. Whether this theoretical romantic entanglement went well or not didn't matter really, this evening should be fun either way. Mycroft liked to think that the pair of them where intelligent enough to be able to maintain a friendship even if this possible relationship failed which is statistically more likely…

Huffing to himself, Mycroft picked up his umbrella and started to walk away. Overthinking. He was overthinking again. He always did that and it never ended well because he didn't sufficiently understand normal people's emotions. The intelligence he was gifted with was a curse. But then Eurus was smarter and Sherlock was able to have plenty of friends. Mycroft sighed, he was stuck horribly in between. Surely if he wasn't smart enough he could understand people enough to have close friends but since he didn't then shouldn't he be smarter? Where was all of that spare brain space going?

Mycroft shook his head violently as if to physically shake off his thoughts. Overthinking AGAIN. If he could just stop himself from thinking and let the evening just take him in it's flow than he may actually theoretically not fuck this up. Mycroft tried to clear his mind of everything except manoeuvring his body the way it should go and thinking about each relevant step in his journey to his destination. That's all he needed to know anyway.

At the door Mycroft paused. He didn't really need much, he had his wallet, umbrella and keys. But there was something he didn't normally have with him, something he wanted to try having just to see if it went okay, something he had been thinking about the previous day. Mycroft quickly ran back into his house and grabbed a safety pin from his desk. He bent the pin sidewards so the sharp point was exposed properly. Yes, that would do just fine. He popped it into his trouser pocket and started heading off.

"Lady Smallwood." Mycroft greeted, as Elizabeth opened the door. He took in her appearance and she looked ravishing. "Please, Mycroft, call me Alicia or at least Elizabeth. We have known each other for years and this is not work, I think we can drop the formalities." Mycroft grinned "Very well, Alicia. You look immaculate if I dare be so bold." Elizabeth blushed softly with a smile "Thank you, Mycroft. But you look far more impressive than I ever could." Mycroft smiled and shook his head slightly "Shall we go?" He asked, opening the car door for her. "Yes, lets."

"Very fancy. If I didn't know you better I might say you where trying to impress me." Lady Smallwood teased as the pair walked into the restaurant together. "Hm… good thing you know me better." Mycroft countered which a smile as they confirmed their reservations with the waiter. The man took the pair away from the main dining area, into a private room. The walls and ceiling where made of glass, the wall of which's door they just walked through being the exception. Mycroft was thankful that it was a clear night so they had s view of the stars rather than clouds. The room had a good view of the Thames only meters bellow. The dining location had very much of the charm of nature but with the fires lining the walls it was cozily warm in oppose to the chilly evening outside.

"Oh, this is absolutely beautiful, Mycroft." Elizabeth said as she took in the scenery wide eyed. The pair sat down at the single two person, white clothed table in the centre of the room. The waiter handed the pair menus and lit the candle next to the Rose at the centre of their table "I will give you some time to decide." He said before leaving.

"Mycroft, how on earth did you find this place?" Lady Smallwood exclaimed in awe. Mycroft shrugged "What's the point in having money if you don't use it? I know this city exceedingly well and have fine dining here on several occasions. Normally I get my own room built if I particularly like a place but here they already had this amazing room. I don't normally take my friends here but I thought you would be able to appreciate the fine dining." Lady Smallwood smiled "Quite."


	36. For starters

Mycroft sipped at the golden champagne as he admired his dining partner. Alicia really did look amazing. With silky hair, tender features and a lovely light in her eyes she blended perfectly into the beautiful scenery, her sparkling black dress closely resembling the stars in the sky above them. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any single human let alone a beautiful and talented lady like Elizabeth. Mycroft grimaced to himself, this was just as bad as taking a knife to someone.

He would hurt her, he would drag her down, he would corrupt her. And Mycroft could not handle that he cared about her too much. But it was too late to do anything. The damage was done. If he hadn't texted or called her, Lady Smallwood would maybe have felt a bit hurt but she'd understand. At this point if he said anything it would be offensive and he'd have been leading her on.

Damn it, it wasn't like that! He did like her! He did want to be with her! It's just that she shouldn't have to be forced through that, no one should. He didn't want to hurt her, she really was important to him. Telling her this should end would hurt her, staying with her would hurt her, what the hell was he supposed to do?

Mycroft sighed to himself, he'd just have to go with it until she dumped him, it was going to happen. The thought saddened him but Mycroft knew it was for the best. He would have the privilege of enjoying the time he had with her. That made Mycroft's stomach churn, what gave him the right? But there was nothing he could do about it. Mycroft breathed heavily, trying to work through his feelings.

It was then that he remembered the pin in his pocket. Mycroft's breath caught and he fingered it gently in his hand before slowly jabbing the point into the delicate flesh between his thumb and pointer. Pain sparked through him and after several sharp stabs he felt as if he could look the beautiful lady in front of him in the eyes.

"Are you okay, Mycroft?" Lady Smallwood asked with eyes glistening with concern. Mycroft blinked, yes he must have looked a bit off just sitting there with a troubled expression breathing heavily. He swallowed thickly and gave her a reassuring smile "Yes of course, Alicia, I was just thinking about the Romanian political affair. You know me, can never get my head out of work." Elizabeth didn't look convinced but she smiled and nodded "I can empathise. About time we had an evening that was just relaxation and no worries or national crises for once. More champagne?" She asked with a smile which Mycroft returned "I'd love some."

"Can I get you any starters?" Mycroft felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He and Elizabeth had been having such a lovely time talking and laughing together he had forgotten about food entirely. He knew how these restaurants went, this wasn't just some normal food place if you didn't have a bit of every single course they would feel personally offended, it didn't matter if you ate any of it or not it was concept. Sometimes being rich was just bloody inconvenient.

"I'll have the chargrilled mackerel, please. Thank you very much." Lady Smallwood said, handing the starters menu over. Mycroft looked at the menu in dismay as eyes landed on him. "C-can I have the um… watercress and pomegranate salad please?" He asks finally, handing over the menu and trying not to look to guilty. Watercress. Judging from the food sources of the restaurant they would only use organic, fresh and chemical free produce. Watercress was four calories per cup added with the pomegranate which was unfortunately sugary but 45% of that would be seed therefore it shouldn't make too much damage. Yes, it would do okay.

"That's a bit small, isn't it?" Lady Smallwood commented as the waiter walked away. Mycroft blushed "I ate a lot for breakfast. I can handle dinner but I don't want to fill myself up already. The later courses are always the better." Alicia nodded "I agree. You can tell me, though, if something is wrong." She said earnestly. Mycroft smiled gently, touched her feeling distant as he knew he couldn't tell her anything, he couldn't tell anyone. "Of course, my dear lady. And the same goes to you naturally, you are a very dear friend to me." "And you I." Lady Smallwood said with a smile.

They couple talked more as they waited for their food. Mycroft let himself forget for a while. It was okay. Probably 20 calories at the most. He was fine. If the worst came to worst he would just have to disappear into the loos to purge himself, it was no big deal. And yet he couldn't help but feel the ridiculous notion of being incredibly greedy. Lady Smallwood would see how far and gross he was when he ate. She would lose the affection and respect she'd had for him and she would leave him like everyone else. But wasn't that good? Wasn't it better that way? Hadn't he only just been thinking about how the lady would be far better off without him?

Mycroft's thought process was cut off as the waiter returned with their starters. Mycroft felt a cold feeling of horror film him. The plate was too big, far too big. It was still a starter plate but a very generous one. It was heaped with food and it wasn't just watercress and pomegranate there were croutons and small bits of bacon!

Mycroft had to bite back panic. This was a stupid thing to panic over, he would just have to deal with it. He could leave as much of it untouched on his plate as he could, maybe hide some? He could throw it up too but that'd have to wait until after all the meals, it would be suspicious if he took three too long trips to the loo one after the other. But surely bits of it would have digested by then…

Mycroft's stomach churned as he emptily thanked the waiter. He watched as Lady Smallwood started eating her food. Here was salted and heavy but she could have that, normal people could have that. But Mycroft couldn't because he was bulging with fat, even a single glass of apple juice was too much for him. He needed a meal a week to help him get to a healthy human size. There was nothing healthy about heart issues.

Mycroft looked at his own food. He had to eat some. Alicia was going to start asking questions. She was watching. Her eyes were on her own food but Mycroft knew that she must be watching. Watching and waiting for him to start eating, start indulging his fat body in this gross obsession of his. Maybe this was why she'd wanted to be with him, so she could find humiliating evidence of his disgusting eating habits.

He had to eat. But he couldn't! But he had to… Mycroft braced himself and brought the fork mechanically to his mouth.


	37. Food inside

"Mycroft are you sure you're alright?" Mycroft's eyes bore into the table, darting up to meet Elizabeth's concerned gaze once or twice. "Yes, of course I am, why do you ask?" He asked a bit sharper than her intended. He looked up to meet her eyes directly with a soft expression, silently apologising for snapping. Elizabeth's eyes where warm and he could see she understood, she was really a marvellous woman.

"Mycroft you had a tiny salad for a starter, picked at it for about twenty minutes before leaving half of it. And now you've chosen a main that is literally roasted vegetables with a vegetable steak! Mycroft, please tell me what's wrong. I'm your friend and I care about you, I want to help. And no I won't hassle you I know that'd only stress you out but if something's wrong you would tell me, right?" She looked at him, her stunning eyes pleading, glistening with care. "Of course I would." Mycroft said, jabbing the pin hard into hand repeatedly in different places.

He felt horrible lying to such a good friend, a person who was kind and selfless enough to actually genuinely care for him and he was betraying her trust even as she requested it. It made him feel sick, it made him aware of the food sitting heavily in his fat stomach and he could practically feel his main course weighing him down, clogging his arteries. It had been so hard to chose something to eat. Looking at the menu every second had made him feel more desperate and panicked.

All the meals where rich and fatty and so full. Mycroft had been seconds from tears over something as mundane as a menu, he was pathetic. Finally he had settled for the meal he had, a vegetarian option. It was the least fatty food on there even though it was still disgustingly so. No doubt they would be all lily and greasy from roasting, salt and chemical seasoning generously plastered over the whole thing. The thought made Mycroft shudder. And he'd have to put that into his body very soon.

Mycroft shuddered again, causing Lady Smallwood to look at him in alarm again. She sighed, shaking her head "Honestly, Mycroft, I do worry about you. You are always so separate from everyone. You make everything your responsibility, you won't stop until all eyes are dry and even then you won't rest. Who's supposed to look after you? You have to let people look after you once in a while, Myc, just letting yourself relax will do you a world of good." Mycroft smiled sheepishly "I may try it some time, I suppose." "Please do." She said only half joking.

The pair fell into conversation again which, to Mycroft's relief, didn't stray back to his wellbeing. But the down side to this was that time flew faster therefore food came quicker. It was, of course, absolutely untrue. Time was the measurement that could not be altered despite ones personal perception of it. But no cynical put down of a saying would change the fact that there was now a big, fat, steaming, rich plate of salty fatty food in front of him now.

Sighing, Mycroft took a forkful of food and lifted it, away from the plate but not close to his mouth. He really, really didn't want to do this. Mycroft could feel Alicia's gaze on him, watching to make sure he ate this time. Out of concern? Was it more than that? Was it something far less kind? It'd make more sense. More sense for her to be watching keenly to spot him stuffing his gaping mouth with fatty food like the pig he was. But that was an insult to pigs. Pigs didn't eat that much and they ate what their farmers provided them for meals. Why did so many people associate them to human gluttony? There was a difference between the methodical eating of an animal and the manic gorging of a human. No animal would willingly eat the fatty, processed, sugary, salty junk that humans happily bumped down. Mycroft took a soothing breath. Those thoughts where making him gag.

With a reluctant sigh Mycroft mechanically tipped the contents of his fork into his mouth and swallowed it. He numbed himself to everything, cutting his thoughts off. He wasn't a human he was a machine. He was a machine programmed transport stuff from the plate into his body. No thinking about it just doing it. It didn't matter how it tasted, what it was made of, if he was full.

That's his Mycroft managed to finish his whole plate. After he'd done it, Mycroft looked up expecting to see Lady Smallwood looking pleased but the worry seemed to have increased. Mycroft frowned, he would never understand human beings. But now he needed to go to the bathroom, he couldn't take it any longer. He could feel each and every bite of his food sitting inside him heavily as they slowly creeped through his digestive system, each second they became more and more irreversibly a part of him. It had to stop. He had to stop it right now. He got up, trying not to make his chair screech. "Where are you going?" Elizabeth asked, looking up at him, ready to get up. "Just going to the loo, I won't be long. Order dessert without me if the waiter comes."

With that he walked out of the room with brisk pace but in a manor that he hoped still looked normal. Where was it? Where on earth was it? Mycroft tried not to break into a run as he searched for the toilet. Every second, every second it was worse. Every second another bit of food had become a part of him. He was getting fatter, he could feel it as his stomach strained against his waistband more and more.

Mycroft pushed through the doors of the bathroom what felt like just on time. It wasn't that he was going to throw up if he was any longer, actually getting himself to throw up required some… encouraging. But he felt like he would have passed out or just broken down crying in the middle of a corridor if he hadn't found it. It was pathetic, he was pathetic. He didn't even know why he was so upset at the moment. But it was all okay, he was there now. He'd better make this quick or Elizabeth would start to worry.

One of the main problems with purging away from home, besides the higher risk of discovery and the need for subtlety, was that you couldn't brush your teeth. Mycroft had no intention of losing his teeth, only losing his fat. So when he arrived at the table he took a massive gulp of champagne, swishing it around his mouth and between his teeth followed by another.

"The waiter should come any minute, I asked him to wait a moment for you to return." Lady Smallwood said, clearly deciding not to comment on the way Mycroft appeared to be trying to get drunk, paying his champagne very close attention. Mycroft nodded, feeling slightly lightheaded. Whether it was from throwing up or from the drink he wasn't very sure.

He looked at the menu and decided to go with a strawberry sorbet. All desserts where horrendously sugary but from the menu this would be the least so. Sorbets where a desert that contained a lot less calories than cakes, strawberry meant it wouldn't have to be sweetened as much as lemon would be. But it would still be 60 calories at the least! Mycroft could probably compensate for that by walking home though…

Mycroft placed his order when the waiter came while Alicia made hers, a plum crumble with custard. It sounded so good… which is exactly why he couldn't have it! He was addicted to food, it was unhealthy he needed to stop. Sherlock had drugs and Mycroft had food. Sherlock had even managed to stop taking drugs with the aid of John and Mycroft couldn't even manage to stop having such unhealthy food? Food wasn't addictive like drugs or alcohol and yet here he was. Mycroft knew that caging even a single time would mean that all he had worked for would be for nothing, he was just too obsessed with food. He was disgusting.


	38. What's wanted and what's right

As a child he had seen candy apples and iced cakes and grease dripping sugary doughnuts, well that's the only way Mycroft could describe how he was feeling. He felt deep fried, sugar glazed, drenched in candy and it was sickening. Mycroft couldn't even go to throw up again because that'd make Lady Smallwood very worried and she was already concerned enough as it was. Mycroft took a deep breath and a generous gulp of champagne. That was another problem, he was considerably tipsy at this point and while he wasn't really one to get drunk very easily he was not comfortable with losing even a single ounce of his self control.

Mycroft looked across to his dining partner with a grimace. This evening must have been absolutely awful for her. Alicia was sitting gracefully in her chair, eating the last of her dessert. She made eating look beautiful, like a very high class advert, unlike his sloppy, gross, slurping mess he called eating. Well, he had wanted a way to make Elizabeth want to leave and it seemed that he had achieved it. This evening was a disaster. The scenery and food was exquisite, so was the service but the company was incredibly lacking.

Mycroft would be the first to admit that he was an absolute mess this evening. He didn't know how or why but he had completely lost all his composure and the poor Lady had to sit and watch while her supposed date slowly came apart while insisting everything was fine. Mycroft sighed, he really did like Lady Smallwood and the thought that he had repulsed her made him considerably depressed. But then there was nothing to be done about it now.

At least Lady Smallwood's suffering was soon over, Mycroft thought as the bill was brought over. Mycroft payed, of corse, it was the least he could do. Besides, the prices where high and he had enough that he could very easily throw a good sum into the Thames for all he cared. But looking over at Alicia she looked surprisingly happy. But then, was it really so surprising? She was a high class politician like himself, a mask of planned emotions was just another thing you brought to work every day. Still, Mycroft hoped that she hadn't found it too bad.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mycroft." Lady Smallwood beamed at him as they stood in front of her house. Mycroft looked at her with obvious scepticism which caused Elizabeth to laugh softly "Oh Mycroft don't look like that! It was amazing I had ever so much fun. I love your company and we really should do things like this more often." Mycroft frowned though he felt a light feeling in his heart. She had enjoyed herself? That was… surprising. Good. That was good. But then Mycroft could sense a 'but' and he could see it bubbling to the surface. He grimaced wishing she would get it out and over and done with.

"Mycroft." The sound of his name made Mycroft fight the urge to flinch. He'd gone from feeling as if he where floating to mentally cowering in a corner bracing himself to being beaten. A hand on his cheek really made Mycroft flinch but it was gentle and soft. Mycroft looked down into Lady Smallwood's eyes as she smiled up at him "Mycroft, this can't continue."

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly, numbing all the emotions bubbling within him. He knew this was going to happen, it had do happen. It always happened but Alicia was being a lot kinder about it than most people. And maybe that's what made it hurt so much more. Mycroft expected her to leave but the comforting hand on his face stayed, stroking his cheek gently.

"I wish it could because goodness I want it too. It's amazing. For me it's all I could dream for and far more but it'd be selfish of me to continue solely for my own purposes." Mycroft frowned "I don't… understand." He said. Elizabeth's eyes dropped to the ground and her hand fell from his face though instead she took both his hands in her grasp.

"Mycroft, I don't know what's going on but I can tell something is. You're not well, Mycroft, you're not okay. Oh, I don't mean that offensively I really mean it Mycroft. There's always a blazing fire in your eyes, you radiate life, or at least what life should be. You're always so, so…" Elizabeth sighed, squeezing his hands "So you and its wonderful. But now you're so put down and pale and broken and the fact that what makes you you hasn't gone it's still there shining brighter than ever just makes it worse. Because Mycroft Holmes should never have to look so sad, so unsure. Mycroft Holmes should never have to be so unnaturally skinny."

Mycroft opened his mouth to object but she cut him off, a delicate hand ghosting over his face "Mycroft Holmes's beautiful blue eyes should never have to look so sad." And then she was close. Far closer than she had been. Soft lips pressed against his lips. It was definitely not soft and tentative like her earlier touch. The kiss was firm and to the point though it wasn't deep or sexual. And then it was over.

"I'm sorry." She said, sheepishly "I had to the once." Alicia sighed "I don't know why you decided to go on this date with me, whether you needed company, needed love, needed something to do. I don't know if you'd have done it if you where completely fine. But what I do know is this can't happen. I won't take advantage of you to bring you into a relationship like this. But even if you really do want to be with me it still shouldn't happen like this. Please, Mycroft, please look after yourself. I care about you so much whether that's as a friend or a colleague or a lover and I can't bare to see you like this." She sighed before letting go of Mycroft's hands which he let swing to his sides "Goodnight, Mycroft." She said before unlocking her door and walking inside.

Elizabeth Smallwood watched from her first floor window as Mycroft stood outside her door for a moment looking incredibly lost before finally he walked to the car and was driven away. With a heavy sigh Elizabeth let herself slide down the wall to the ground. She'd messed up, she knew she had. She just wanted what was best for Mycroft and now she'd messed up. Alicia knew Mycroft wasn't the best with feelings, especially his own, and he was sure to be more hurt by her words than comforted. But she'd had to. She felt so horrid, like she was manipulating the poor man. Of course she wanted to be with him! He was Mycroft Holmes, the most brilliant man she knew in every way. But she didn't know if he really wanted to be with her and she didn't know if it was healthy for him to try.

It was with another sigh that Alicia got to her feet. She had no idea what was wrong with Mycroft and on her own she had no idea how to help. This was far to serious to settle for that. She grabbed her coat and keys before purposefully striding out the door.


	39. I couldn't tell you because

It was peaceful. The gentle clicking of the keys of John's laptop as he typed up the next in their series of adventures mixing with the sweet sound of the bow being drawn melodically over the strings of Sherlock's perfectly tuned violin. John smiled gently, Sherlock wasn't playing to help him think like he did sometimes and he wasn't playing to help him come to grips with his emotions. No, he was playing purely for the fun of it and that suited him nicely, it was good for the both of them to just be doing things for the sake of doing them rather than because they are trying to deal with some trauma or another.

Since he and Sherlock had just finished the case Mycroft had given them (which John had dubbed 'the charitable felons' much to Sherlock's chagrin) John had started to type it up. It was quite interesting. In the end they had found out it was a group of European drug smugglers that had teamed up with a local failing charity who swooped in to save the day during the villages terror. The charity slipped hallucinogenics and poisons into the food they were supplying the town (they had nothing since fishing was their primary source of money and food and the sea was out of bound due to the deaths).

The black spots on people's hands where also from the food. The charity got a large increase in funding and the drug dealers could get into the country by sea. Well, it would make a popular story, everyone loved pirates. Especially Sherlock whom John rarely saw as excited as he had been when they got to the bit where they had to pirate one of the drug ships. For some reason they had dressed up as pirates too, John didn't see why but Sherlock had insisted it was a highly important part of their case.

John still didn't know why it was important but damn Sherlock had looked good in that loose, roguish white shirt, that Victorian gothic buckled waist coat and faded trousers that where definitely too tight to be pirate-era accurate. John shook himself, he couldn't let himself think like that, he didn't . He wasn't… it was just an observation, acknowledging a fact no more.

So while he had typed, Sherlock had been making notes on an experiment, luckily one that involved no human body parts in any form. But he had finished that quite soon and had come to perch on his chair and watch John writing who had braced himself for a dramatic declaration of boredom. But it didn't come, instead Sherlock stood and walked over to his violin, picking it up "Would you like me to play?" He asked much to John's surprise. When had Sherlock ever asked? He nodded with a smile "Yeah, that'd be great." Sherlock nodded and picked up the bow expertly and started to play a sweet, calming melody.

And that's where they where then. Both immersed in their own activities, harmonically aware of the other's. It really was peaceful, something that could do rarely be said about 221b Baker Street and its residents. So both men savoured it while they could.

John would be lying if he denied the fact he had finished his blog entry and sat pretending to still be typing so he could continue to listen to his best friends playing in the peace and atmosphere of the moment. But of course there was only so long that could last. He cleared his throat and got to his feet "Take away?" Sherlock looked slightly startled, disorientated at being shocked out of his thoughts. He shook himself clear "Yes, take away sounds good." He answered, putting the violin away.

"I can go get it." He offered but John cut him off "No, no I will. I've got nothing better to do right now anyway. What do you fancy?" Sherlock shrugged, falling back onto his chair "I don't mind, I trust your choice." John chuckled softly "Very indecisive today. You alright?" Sherlock hummed softly "What? Yeah, I'm fine John. Why wouldn't I be? I'm just thinking… some stuff on my mind I'm sure even you could empathise." John shook his head with a smile at Sherlock's Sherlock-y-ness. "Alright then, I'm off to get Indian. I'll see you later, yeah?" He said before letting the door swing closed behind him.

Sherlock watched the closed door and listened keenly as John's footsteps descended down the stairs, then finally the front door shut with a soft click. It was only then that he jumped from his chair, picking up his phone from his jacket pocket.

HE'S OUT. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT IT?

SH

WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS. JUST TELL HIM YOU LIKE HIM AND FUCK ALREADY.

IA

NO! I CAN'T DO THAT. BESIDES, THIS ISN'T A GOOD IDEA. HE HASN'T HAD A DATE IN AGES, HE'S NOT INTERESTED IN HAVING A RELATIONSHIP RIGHT NOW. EVEN IF HE WAS I'D BE THE LAST PERSON HE'D WANT TO BE WITH.

SH

OH COME ON. IT'S BLATANTLY OBVIOUS YOU BOTH LIKE EACH OTHER. THE PAIR OF YOU ARE BOTH HALF INTELLIGENT MEN WHO KNOW EACH OTHER DOWN TO A SINGLE HAIR ON THE OTHER'S BACK YET YOU ARE SO OBLIVIOUS. IT WAS CUTE AT FIRST NOW IT'S JUST GETTING PAINFUL TO WATCH. IF YOU AREN'T GOING TO MAKE A MOVE THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL MESSAGING ME ABOUT IT?

IA

YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO HELP ME WITH THIS. YOU ARE THE SEX EXPERT, IF YOU CAN'T GIVE ME SOME SIMPLE ADVICE THEN WHAT EXACTLY IS THE POINT OF YOU?

SH

OHO, LASHING OUT AT ME IN A OVERLY DEFENSIVE LAPSE OF ANGER? YOU MUST REALLY LIKE HIM. LOOK, SHERLOCK, I CAN'T JUST TELL YOU WHAT TO DO. THIS IS SBOUT YOU AND JOHN WHICH MEANS YOU HAVE TO DO THIS ALONE JUST BETWEEN THE TWO OF YOU. ONLY YOU TWO CAN TRULY UNDERSTAND WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE BETWEEN YOU AND HOW.

IA

I GUESS YOU ARE RIGHT. THANK YOU.

SH

BESIDES, YOU ARE BOTH SO SEXUALLY FRUSTRATED BY NOW THAT NO MATTER HOW THIS GOES YOU'RE GONNA END UP FUCKING THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER ANYWAY.

IA

REMIND ME WHY I'M GETTING ADVICE FROM YOU?

SH

NOT A CLUE. BUT I EXPECT SOME PICTURES OF YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND AS PAYMENT.

IA

WHY THE HELL WOULD I SEND YOU THAT?

SH

DON'T WORRY I WOULDN'T USE THEM AGAINST YOU. YOU SAVED MY LIFE, REMEMBER? THEY WOULD BE FOR… PERSONAL REASONS ALONE ;)

IA

GOODBYE

SH

WE COULD EVEN HAVE A THREESOME

IA

Sherlock shook his head and pocketed his phone. It was then he noticed that he wasn't alone in the room. His eyes guiltily met John's beautiful blue ones that held that untamed anger he got every once in a while and Sherlock knew he was screwed. It was all he could do not to curl up whimpering and beg to be forgiven. "No, no don't stop on my accord." John said, walking in, his every movement speaking of suppressed emotions that where increasing pressure inside him ready to blow. Sherlock would be lying if he said the danger the man was seeping didn't turn him on.

"John it's not-" he began but was cut off. "No, don't you bloody lie to me, Sherlock Holmes, and don't you lie to yourself! I said that you should text her back, I said that you should pursue what you two have because it clearly means something to both of you. I said it would complete you as a human being and to get yourself a piece of that. Now you are doing that so don't bloody stop on my accord! I'll give you some space." He said, dumping the bag of food on the table and turning to leave.

"John!" Sherlock called out after him, letting out a relieved breath when John stopped, though he didn't turn around. "If you're okay with it then why are you angry at me?" He asked in a tentative voice, hoping the question wasn't too provoking. He had decided it was wise to stop pushing John's buttons so much since the man had beat him in the hospital.

Sherlock flinched as John spun around, his eyes burning with the same look that had been there that day. "I'm not angry at you!" John yelled. As the flat rung with the silence that followed his outburst, John breathed heavily and became aware of the situation, trying to calm his anger before speaking any more. He sighed, making half a movement to reach out to comfort Sherlock before thinking better of it. Sherlock hadn't realised he was trembling.

"I'm not angry at you, Sherlock. All the bloody times I have had reason to be angry at you I never quite manage it, never. Annoyed, yes. Pissed of, definitely. But never angry. Not at you, I could never manage that. If I get angry, Sherlock, please remember that it could never be you I'm angry at. And I might say things, remember that I don't actually mean them. And don't let me take my anger out on you, Sherlock, not ever. Please. You don't deserve that, okay, Sherlock?"

When Sherlock didn't respond John sighed and hesitantly wrapped an arm around him "If you won't do it for you do it for me. Yes I get angry, I will be the first to admit that I have anger problems. Between Afghanistan and losing you for those years and then Mary it's only gotten worse. I can't help it but that doesn't mean I mean it. I don't want to calm down from one of my anger spells to find you beaten and bleeding on the floor again. I don't want to find out that you're hurting because of something I've said. If you won't do it for you do it for me because hurting you in any way hurts me more than any direct blow ever could."

Sherlock nodded and transferred his weight so he was leaning into John's touch as he thought over what John had said. They sat in silence, this one comfortable and warm unlike the scary silence after John and shouted. After a while, Sherlock shifted, squirming out of John's embrace and into the corner of his chair furthest away from John. This hurt John but he didn't show it and listened patiently for what Sherlock had to say.

"I was telling the truth, John. It wasn't what it looked like." John raised his eyebrows sceptically but kept quiet, not wanting to snap at Sherlock again. Sherlock picked up that he was walking on thin ice and quickly hurried on "It wasn't really. I don't like her. But I don't deny it was her I was texting. The woman, Irene Adler." Sherlock gave John a worried glance, knowing he would be causing friction between the two of them if he didn't explain himself properly and soon but he was incredibly reluctant to do so. Without telling John but planning to do so it was bliss. He could fantasise over his reactions, pretend they where a couple who would live happily ever after. But he didn't really want to tell him, he wasn't ready to be rejected yet. He wanted to mentally prepare himself more. But then how could he prepare for that? Now was as good a time as any.

"I was… getting advice from her. I don't like her. But I do like someone and I have never done anything like this before. I was getting some advice over how to… proceed with the situation." Sherlock said carefully. Sherlock studied John's eyes, fringe to deduce all the emotions. He had to understand John as much as he could, he had to know because every detail he didn't was something that he wasn't bracing himself for. There was surprise, relief, anger and… hurt?

"Why didn't you come to me?" He said finally. Sherlock blinked, caught of guard "I'm sorry, what?" John looked down, pursing his lips "Why didn't you ask me for advice? I'm your best friend. Granted, I haven't had the greatest history in relationships. But, ya know, you could have at least told me." Sherlock had not been expecting this. What the hell was he supposed to say? He couldn't not say anything because that would hurt John, he couldn't lie because John would know and he definitely couldn't tell the truth. But what else could he do?

Sherlock sighed, his fists balled tightly, nails digging into his palms with anxiety as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. "I couldn't go to you," he started, trying to keep his voice clear and steady while he could feel his whole world that he had tried so hard to rebuild crashing down around him "B-because… it's, well, um… I couldn't tell you because it's you that I like and need advice on how to tell."


	40. Trick

Sherlock sat stiffly in his chair looking at his nails, not daring to look at John, too afraid of what he would see. Every second the silence stretched by made Sherlock's heart beat faster and breathing more rapid, he was afraid. He was terrified. John knew and he was going to reject him and he would probably be really nice about it just saying he didn't return the feelings but that this didn't change anything so they would try to make things like they where but every single interaction would be overthought, every word gone stale, and then they would reduce any bodily contact they had like shaking hands, passing items that type of thing then the eye contact would reduce and then their speech towards each other until John decides it'd be better for the both of them if he moved back out and they where still fri bfs but their meetings would lessen and lessen until Sherlock was just a forgotten face, an old name that used to mean something to John in times gone by, and damn it Sherlock couldn't take that!

Oh gosh, what had he done? Just when things had started getting good again between him and John, just when he'd started to piece his life back together. And now this. Why the hell couldn't he have settled for enjoying every moment he and John had together? Why couldn't he appreciate being the most amazing man in the world's best friend? He just had to try to get something more and now he'd lost it all and…

"You mean to say…" John's voice made Sherlock jump, any other time he might have been embarrassed by the fact he had done something so exterior but he couldn't bring himself to care about something that seemed so insignificant in these circumstances. Sherlock looked up to John hesitantly. John's face was blank, his eyes blank to but there was clear signs of rapid thought process behind that.

"That I'm… That you…" Sherlock was trembling, there was no denying that he was trembling. He was terrified and in a context he had never experienced before. This had never happened to him, not even a single thing close to this had happened. And Sherlock was glad because this was horrifying and he didn't know how much more he could take. Why couldn't John just get it over and done with? Be merciful, one blow clean cut execution? Put him out of his misery.

"That-" Sherlock shook his head violently, he couldn't take this anymore "John, please, I can't take this. Please just get to the point because I don't know how much of this I can handle." John nodded, though he looked just as blank as before. "You like me?" "Yes." "As more than a friend?" "Yes." "As a lover?" "Yes." "As in a sexual lover?" "Yes, John, yes. I like you. I love you in every sense of the word. And I'm sorry because I can't change that I've tried to change it, tried to hide it, tried to block it out but I never can, not when there is still the slightest chance that you might actually feel even remotely the same way back."

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he expected to happen but he definitely knew it wasn't for John to burst into laughter. Sherlock didn't know what to make of it but it didn't feel good. "What's the joke?" He asked, trying to keep his tone as off-handed as possible. John tried to regain his composure enough to talk and Sherlock flinched slightly, John's eyes where dangerous and held none of the mirth that came with amusement.

"Nice try, Sherlock, but I've known you too long to fall for it." Sherlock blanched "Fall for what?" "FOR THIS. Sherlock Holmes the drama queen. Not enough attention? Hm? Ran out of the attention the drugs got you? No case or deductions to leave people awe struck? But there's nothing right now to trick me with, can't pretend your dead or dying, can't pretend I'm going to be killed by a second gunpowder plot. So what other way is there? Ah yes, let's try for directly emotional tricks! I know you are a bloody high functioning sociopath as you do often declare but even you should know that that's low. What's the joke? The joke is you liking me, you loving me. Ha bloody ha Sherlock, yeah that's really funny. A bit not good, Sherlock, that's a bit not good."

Sherlock looked at John, stunned. He didn't know what this was, what any of this was. He didn't understand what was happening to his body, what was happening to his brain. He'd taken a leap of faith into a place he was completely lost in and he had no idea how to deal with any of this. He didn't know what that weird feeling in his gut was or the sharp thing in his chest or why he felt a bit like throwing up, was he ill? He should really have that checked.

But as his eyes started to sting and he felt something hot drip down his cheek, Sherlock knew he had to run, had to get out. So he did, he ran to his bedroom, stumbling along the corridor through his blurry vision and slammed the door shut behind him, locking it. And then finally it was safe to cry and Sherlock let go of all his restraints as he sobbed desperately into his bed.

It wasn't real. It didn't feel real. Everything felt fake. Everything didn't feel right, breathing, swallowing, seeing. They weren't supposed to feel so odd, so forced. But John couldn't give those things more than a second of his time because his thoughts where bursting. He was too busy inside his own mind, trying to work everything out, apply some sense to this madness, that he forgot that there was a world outside of his head, that other people even existed. That his voice could be heard. He forgot that Sherlock was even there until he wasn't. And somehow that's what made him realise it was real and that making sense of it all didn't really matter at all. Shit. Sherlock never cried.


	41. I want more

"Sherlock? Sherlock, open the door!" John's voice and the sound of banging and rattling sounded through the flat but there was no movement, not even a sound from the other man. John sighed, cursing himself with every word he knew as he ran a hand over his face. "Sherlock I know I acted like a complete and utter dick and that's putting it lightly and I know I have absolutely no right to come after you after that but please just let me in, just this once. Please, Sherlock, I don't want to do this from the other side of a door!"

John was silent for a moment, straining his ears to pick up any sound from the other side but there was nothing. He sighed again, it was time for desperate measures "Sherlock stand well back from the door, I'm knocking it open." He yelled at the door, waiting a few seconds to give Sherlock time to move. There was no confirmation from the other side of the door so John just crossed his fingers Sherlock had heeded his warning and wasn't close enough to get hurt. He ran at the door, using a stance he had been taught in the army, hitting the door in exactly the right place. The lock gave way and the door swung open.

John panted for a moment, taking in the room as he caught his breath. It didn't take long to locate Sherlock, who was curled up in a tight ball on the bed, his face hidden. John's eyes softened, sadness and guilt burning inside him as he looked back at what he'd said. Sherlock hadn't been joking. Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant man he knew and completely emotionally uncomfortable, had actually got the courage to confess his attraction to him and what had he done? Ripped him down, cruelly reminisced him and then laughed at the idea. Honestly he really was the dickiest dick that had ever dicked.

"Hey." He said in a soft voice, slightly awkwardly. What was he supposed to say after all that? John walked up to the bed and sat besides Sherlock's curled form. Had he always been that skinny? John noticed the man's too small waistline in concern. Sherlock curled up slightly more but didn't move away. After a moments hesitation, John placed a hand on Sherlock's back, rubbing it gently. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He whispered softly.

Sherlock shifted slightly, seemingly unsure whether to lean into John's touch or recoil away. John knew Sherlock wasn't going to say anything so he decided to elaborate. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, for everything that just happened. I'm sorry for not believing you where serious, I'm sorry for laughing and for insulting you and, bloody hell, so much more. I just… Im sorry for all of that. All of it. Now I'm not trying to make excuses, definitely not because there is no excusing what I did, I just want you to understand that I didn't mean that. You…"

John took a deep breath, trying to steel himself "You are the most amazing, most intelligent, wisest, most courageous, selfless, caring man I know. You are brilliant in every way. You are impossibly clever, your personality is absolutely amazing and physically you're bloody drop dead gorgeous." He smiled softly, running his fingers through Sherlock's curls "Me? I'm just a greying army doctor who can't get his head back down to reality, who has anger issues and specialises in making everyone who gets close to him feel like shit. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that you could like me and that's not because of any flaw with you because you're bloody perfect. I just never thought someone as amazing as you could like me back."

Sherlock shifted slightly, though he didn't look up "What," John winced at the croaky tone to his voice, he must have been crying a lot "do you mean 'like me back'?" He asked, his voice legitimately confused. John smiled gently, continuing to massage Sherlock's back "I mean that I like you, Sherlock. Hell, I love you. I care about you more than I ever thought I would be capable of caring. And I never thought you would feel the same way about me as I do for you. I don't really know when my feelings changed from 'best friend' to 'best friend who's crushing on you'.

"I guess from the very first time I saw you I was stunned by your looks and then I was completely amazed by your mind and once I got to know you I got addicted to your personality. But I've never liked a boy before so maybe that's part of what made me blind to my attraction to you. Actually I think it was probably after the… the 'fall' that I started to realise. The thought that I would never be able to tell you made me aware that there was actually something to tell. So yeah. I like you, I love you. Far more than just a best friend should." John laughed dryly "I have a bloody unique way of expressing it."

He looked down at Sherlock who had become still and sighed. "I'm not saying we should, you know, be a thing. Not that I wouldn't like that! I …um well. I would like that, very much so! But, you know, you probably wouldn't want to and I completely understand that because I have been such an arse hole and I am so sorry. I just… I just wanted you to know that I felt the same way." He said, looking down at Sherlock one last time before getting up and starting to walk away.

"John wait." A soft voice cut him of as he started to turn the door handle. John turned around, Sherlock was sitting up, his eyes red and his cheeks stained with tears. Sherlock paused as if trying to gather the words to say and the courage to say them "John I… I'm sorry for ever making you feel like you wouldn't be good enough. I'm sorry for being such an emotionless bastard all the time that the thought that I was tricking you was more easy to believe than the fact I love you. I'm sorry. For everything always. And thank you so much for absolutely everything. I…" Sherlock took a deep breath "If you wouldn't mind… if you would like to, that is, I… w-will you be my boyfriend?"

John broke into a massive grin. He didn't think he'd never smiled this much in his life and he was visibly shaking from all the feelings he couldn't explain "Yes. Yes I'd love to, more than anything else in the world, yes." He said, more happy than he had been for far too long. Sherlock seemed surprised but his face showed intense relief and joy to match John's. The curly haired man let out a shaky breath and put his hands over his mouth.

John smiled and walked over to him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, pulling the slender man onto his lap. Sherlock's weight on top of him and their arms wrapped around each other, each pulling the other as close as they could go, it just felt so right. John pulled one of his arms away from the embrace and gently lifted Sherlock's chin so he was looking to the younger man's stunning blue eyes. He smiled softly "Sherlock, I… I'm going to kiss you now, is that okay?" Sherlock blushed and nodded eagerly. John smiled fondly, it wasn't often, if at all, that Sherlock was unsure and speechless and he had to take the lead.

John leaned forward hesitantly for a moment, assessing Sherlock's face for any sign of discomfort but there was none, he looked excited, his breathing shallow, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated. Fuck Sherlock was so cute. John closed the space between their lips, pressing his own against Sherlock's perfect lips. They where soft and sweet and warm and so very addictive. John just wanted to completely claim it, push past his lips and taste and explore every centimetre of that brilliant mouth. But he knew he shouldn't.

Now John was here in this situation he had fantasised about oh so many times and he was suddenly scared. Sherlock felt like the most precious, most delicate porcelain doll there in his arms and he felt he had to be so very delicate for fear of breaking him. The thought was absolutely ridiculous, the man was one of the strongest most independent men he knew, but right there in John's arms he felt so precious, so pure as he moved his lips against John's in a way that was delicate, hungry and tentative at the same time. John knew that Sherlock wouldn't object to anything but that was the problem. It was up to him to make this the best for Sherlock as he could and damn it that's what he was going to do.

The pair soon reluctantly drew back for breath. Sherlock looked so beautiful gasping for breath, his pink lips wet and his cheeks flushed. John couldn't help but brush a strand of his ruffled curls out of Sherlock's face. Sherlock blushed, an excited grin breaking into his face. "That was… amazing." He said, his beautiful deep voice husky, shaking slightly with nerves. John smiled and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair "Definitely. Fuck, I've never enjoyed a kiss this much since I was a teenager. Actually I've definitely never enjoyed a kiss this much. You're just… fuck you're amazing." John murmured, eagerly taking in every inch of Sherlock's appearance.

John watched Sherlock, gently stroking his cheek. Sherlock's eyes glistened with lust and his face was flushed. He clearly looked like he wanted to say something. "What do you want, love?" John murmured gently, holding the younger man close. Sherlock blushed then swallowed thickly "I-I… I want more."


	42. John's experiment

John pressed Sherlock down onto the bed, climbing onto the man's hips as the lustful kiss continued. Sherlock moaned, this felt absolutely glorious. Of course he had kissed people before but they had been drug addled make-outs or curled by fake emotions but he'd never had anything even remotely like this. It felt better than anything he'd ever felt before. Sherlock loved the feeling of John's weight on his hips. He loved the feeling of John's calloused, strong hands against his skin as they held him gently. He loved the feeling of John's hair against his forehead, a reminder of just how close the man was. But most of all he loved the feeling of John's soft, warm lips expertly moving against his, the sparks of feelings that he hadn't known could feel so good or strong, and Sherlock loved the feeling of John's tongue.

The older man had seemed slightly hesitant in deepening the kiss. Sherlock had been tempted to remind him that he didn't have to do anything he didn't want to before he realised John wanted to very much, he just didn't want Sherlock to feel out of his comfort zone. If he was perfectly honest, all of this was out of his comfort zone but that didn't mean he didn't want it. The sense of excitement and the thrill of doing something so unknown to him was amazing but, as well as that, Sherlock knew that he was absolutely safe with John, completely and wholly, always. Sherlock could embrace something completely different to him, let himself come apart and take down his walls as he was held safely in John's arms because Sherlock knew John would protect him.

As John had questioningly licked at Sherlock's bottom lip, he had been confused at first at what John was asking. When it had struck him, Sherlock's heart had pounded. It was new and scary and Sherlock had never realised how much he'd wanted it until now. He opened his mouth slightly, not confident at all with how his body was supposed to move, which was not something he was used to. But his anxiety was short lived as John slipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and fuck it was amazing. Sherlock was soon overtaken by instinct and his movements just happened naturally, he moved his tongue and his lips in a way he could not imitate later, it was happening subconsciously, naturally, and it felt brilliant.

As John reached a particularly sensitive part of his mouth, Sherlock made an involuntary noise on reflex. He blushed brightly, suppressing any more noises. John pulled back and kissed him gently on the lips as they both breathed heavily. "Don't hold back, Sherlock, you sound amazing." He murmured softly before leaning on for another deep kiss. Sherlock's cheeks only got hotter but he didn't hold back and it made it feel even more amazing as he moaned and gasped, letting all his emotions run free rather than suppressing them.

To Sherlock's dismay John pulled back after a while, panting softly. John chuckled softly at Sherlock's face "It's okay, there's plenty more you're gonna like." He reasoned, causing Sherlock to blush brightly. John sat up pursing his lips as he took in Sherlock's body "I'm going to do an experiment." He said finally. Sherlock looked at him in surprise and curiosity "Okay." He said obliviously. John smiled, running a finger over Sherlock's lips "I'm going to… explore your body. See what places you like to be touched most, see which places make you feel amazing. I don't think it's time yet to just get on with things. Are you up for it?" Sherlock swallowed and nodded, finding his voice had deserted him. "Good boy." John purred. It was weird being spoken to in such a manner but that and the tone of John's voice unexplainably made a shiver run down his body, settling in a warm tingling in a place that… , well, did nothing to help Sherlock's blush.

John looked over Sherlock's beautiful body and considered where to start. Taking in his very annoyingly present clothes he decided to work his way according to that. John leant down again, his lips brushing Sherlock's neck. The man's breathy gasp told John that yes Sherlock did like being touched there. That was good because John rather liked that too and Sherlock's slender, pale, unblemished neck made him want to suck it and nibble at it and take in the beautiful reactions Sherlock had.

John started gentle, letting Sherlock get used to the feeling by peppering gentle kisses over the sensitive area, each kiss making Sherlock gasp and moan. But he steadily increased his strength until he was sucking harshly on Sherlock's delicate skin, said man crying out loudly in pleasure. John grazed his teeth down Sherlock's neck before nibbling gently at the bottom, licking over each spot he concentrated on. Sherlock was trembling and moaning freely when John finally stopped. He pulled back and kissed Sherlock delicately several times as the man caught his breath. John sat down on Sherlock's hips a bit higher than he had been before since his previous place was now occupied by a rather large tenting. John smirked, pleased his work had been enjoyed.

((Due to the rules of this site the rest of this chapter cannot be displayed, if you wish to read it search this story in 'archive of our own'. Warning: contains detailed depictions of male/male sexual themes))


	43. The virgin and the soldier

(THIS SECTION OF THE FANFICTION COULD NOT BE DISPLAYED DUE TO EXPLICIT SEXUAL THEMES IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ IT PLEASE SEARCH FOR 'I'M NOT LONELY SHERLOCK BY YANDEREKIRKLANDCHAN ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN)

Both men lay gasping on Sherlock's bed. John used the little strength he had to pull himself out of Sherlock's arse. He lay down next to Sherlock and held the man close to him. He peppered gentle kisses over Sherlock's damp skin as the younger man caught his breath. "That was amazing!" Sherlock gasped. John smiled and nodded "Definitely. I'm glad you enjoyed it. That really was bloody brilliant."

Sherlock nodded, looking thoroughly worn out. John smiled "Sleep, love. I've got you." He murmured as Sherlock curled up against his chest. Sherlock started giggling "What is it, darling?" John murmured gently "Irene said that no matter how telling you went we would end up fucking each other anyway." John smiled gently "Well she was right I suppose." They lay together, a tangle of legs and bed sheets. John gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair as he felt the man slowly fall asleep in his arms. It was so comfortable and so right him and Sherlock pressed close, skin against skin, no space between them. John closed his eyes and drifted into the most peaceful sleep he'd had in ages.


	44. Burn

Mycroft sat curled up on his sofa trying to process what the hell just happened. Part of him was very happy if confused by Alicia's affection. But then part of him was hysterically cursing himself. Now he had somehow managed to push the one person who had shown an interest in befriending him away and he didn't even know what he'd done. He just didn't understand.

Mycroft clawed at his head as he tried to make sense of everything. Alicia had given him her number which suggested she wanted to extend the depth of their relationship with each other. He was the one who asked her on a date though, perhaps that had been a wrong move? Had he taken the signs too far? Mycroft would not pretend to be an expert at matters of love. Elizabeth had seemed to admire his choice in restaurant. But was there a chance it had been too intense for a first date? Too showy or pompous? He had been a rubbish dining partner but Alicia had insisted that she had enjoyed herself. Where those just patronising words of kindness? And then she had turned him away with a kiss. Mycroft sunk down his sofa. Reviewing everything just made Mycroft more confused.

Mycroft sighed, his fingers tracing the crevices of the pin in his pocket. He smiled serenely as the it occurred to him that he didn't have to use the small pin to hurt himself now he was back alone in the walls of his own house. Mycroft shook his head violently, physically trying to shake the thoughts away. No. If he indulged in cutting so soon after the last time then even if he cut in hidden places this time it would become more noticeable. Not that there was anyone there to notice but just in case.

Mycroft stood up abruptly and went to his kitchen to make a cup of tea. A very systematic coping mechanism he shared with many other citizens of the country and the rest of the world. Mycroft prepared the bag and flipped the switch for the water to boil. While he waited he was forced to think. He had quite vivid thoughts, it was a curse of withholding so many facts. The more he tried to banish his thoughts the more vivid they became as more of his attention subconsciously drifted to it. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' Nononono don't agree. Please don't agree. Not in front of people! Do you know how greedy you look? 'Thank you' fat idiot 'the kettles over there'. Fat, greedy, arrogant, self centred, lazy, worthless idiot.

The comment struck him. It singularly made him aware of what he was doing. He hadn't even thought about the answer, about asking for tea, it was a natural response. How fat did he have to be to unconsciously ask people for food and drink? And how arrogant did he have to be to expect other people to give him stuff? It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Mycroft looked down at the tea that was half made in front of him. Now the thought of indulging in the drink sickened him to no end.

Shakily, Mycroft lifted the mug to the sink. He had only gotten around to adding the hot water anyway so it wasn't too much of a waste. With his shaking grip he placed the mug down on the very edge of the sink counter where it toppled over the side. Mycroft realised his mistake on time to grab the cup before it shattered only to let it go again with a yelp, clutching his hands. He hadn't taken into account how hot the water would still be. Silly miscalculation, another factor in the ever increasing list of reasons why he was losing his touch.

Mycroft stuck his angrily red hand under the running water for a little while to soothe the burn. As it stopped stinging and his heart rate returned to normal after the fright, Mycroft thought over the occurrence. Perhaps it wasn't all that bad… Mycroft removed his hand from under the tap and picked up a tea spoon, dipping it in the boiling water for a little while before pressing it against the back of his hand, gritting his teeth as pain shocked through his body. He held it there revelling in the well deserved pain until the metal cooled down and he removed the spoon from his skin. There was a small, circular red mark on the back of his hand. A lot less obvious than the angry slashes of his previous self harm. This could definitely work.

Mycroft repeated the process again and again, not letting his mind stray from the repetitive process, not daring to think about why he was doing this just remember that he deserved this pain. He kept going until his hand started to twitch and had become numb and swollen. But as Mycroft observed it he could find nothing disastrous about it. He was known to be a man of science, questionable science at that, was it so unusual to imagine a scenario he could have burnt his ands in? Mycroft smiled, rather pleased with himself which was a strange collaborative mix with the self loathing. It hardly made any sense for him to be pleased with himself for finding a way for hurting himself because he hated himself but it was nevertheless what he was feeling.

Mycroft treated his hand messily with some gauze and an ice pack before he retreated to his bedroom. It had been quite and evening and his head was throbbing, begging to be rested. Maybe everything would make more sense in the morning.


	45. Client

"Jaawwwwnnn." Sherlock's groaning had John rushing quickly into the bedroom. "What's wrong?" John frowned, sitting beside the newly awoken Sherlock who whimpered gently "It hurts." He whined which caused a small smile to flicker across John's face "Hurts where?" Sherlock blushed brightly and scowled which made John chuckle "Don't worry, love, I'll take care of you." He murmured gently, holding Sherlock comfortingly. "I was just making some breakfast. Neither of us had dinner last night so we really should eat. I was making French toast, it's almost finished. You have a bath, it'll help you feel better, okay?" Sherlock nodded and got to his feet with a wince.

John smirked, a thought hitting him as he watched Sherlock limp towards the door. The picked Sherlock up and started carrying him to the bathroom, a very surprised Sherlock clinging onto him. "You should really eat more, Sherlock, you're lighter than Rosie." Sherlock just shook his head, blushing brightly. John gently placed Sherlock in the bath and kissed him on the forehead "I'll just finish off the breakfast." He smiled before departing.

In the kitchen it didn't take John long to finish the French toast. He was a bit out of touch cooking since he really never actually made himself food in oppose to buying it but looking it over he was impressed with his work. John went back to the bathroom to check up on Sherlock.

He knocked on the door before entering "Hey. How're you doing?" John asked gently. Sherlock looked up from the bath with a smile at John's presence "Better. The bath was a good idea." John nodded and sat on the stool in the corner "After you're out I want to give you a quick examination to make sure there's no damage. It's highly unlikely that anythings wrong aside from the expected pain but it's better to be safe." Sherlock blushed brighter "Examination?" He muttered causing John to chuckle "Don't look like that, Sherlock, I'm a medical professional. Besides, I've already fucked you in the arse I think we've gotten past that barrier." John's words only seemed to make Sherlock more embarrassed. John kissed Sherlock gently as the younger man started to dry himself off and the pair went into the living room after John made certain that Sherlock wasn't hurt from the previous night.

Sherlock sniffed as he collapsed dramatically into his chair "Smells nice. I didn't know you could cook." John chuckled "That's awfully domestic of you. Well, for you. Aren't you going to start complaining about boredom or the lack of a murder soon?" Sherlock shrugged with a small smile "This is quite contenting actually." John smirked but didn't make any sexual remarks, Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate being teased. He retreated into the kitchen before returning with a plate for him and Sherlock who took his plate without complaint to John's relief.

It was several hours later that the pair where interrupted from their peaceful around the flat activities. The ringing of the doorbell had both men looking up abruptly, carefully listening to the ringing pattern. "Client." They both whispered to each other while still listening carefully to the movement downstairs, not wanting to be taken unaware.

There where the very familiar footsteps of Mrs Hudson walking to the door, followed by the telltale creak of the door opening. There was the brief hushed talking, a short conversation over as soon as it was confirmed whoever it was was a client no doubt. The second set of footsteps where unrecognised by John who could only recognise the footfall of those close to him. But Sherlock, however, frowned with recognition. Of course he couldn't be certain but that sounded an awful lot like…

"I apologise if I am disturbing you, gentleman, the land lady told me to come right in." Elizabeth Smallwood stood in the frame of the now open door. "Lady Smallwood! You can drop the formalities, there's no point in politely pretending you're a stranger to our family. You're very close to Mycroft in fact you went on a date with him just recently going by the state of your-" "Sherlock." John's warning voice cut Sherlock off who then had time to notice Lady Smallwood's rather worn demeanour.

Sherlock cleared his throat and got out a chair for her "You've come here again. I trust all the troubles with your ex husband and those letters have been resolved. I think I put a rather permanent end to that case." Lady Smallwood let out a small laugh though it seemed to hold no mirth "Yes quite. No I'm not here about any of that." "But you are, in fact, here in the position of a client again?"

The lady nodded in response, very slightly wringing her hands an act that Sherlock deduced to be a display of extreme internal distress given the fact that a woman of her profession and caliber would be used to undergoing a great deal of stress and having to not show it. This also suggested the matter was personal but then it wasn't to do with her ex husband since she dismissed that. Sherlock also made several other deductions from her appearance and body language however they appeared to only make things more strange. Though he didn't doubt that light would be soon thrown upon this by whatever she was to say.

"Take your time, there's no rush." Said John in oppose to Sherlock's anxiousness. Ever the doctor to someone he deemed his patient. "Tell us what's wrong and we will see what we can do to help." John soothed, picking up on the uncharacteristic distress of the lady. "Yes. Yes, sorry, yes. Um… Well I came to you because for this there really isn't anyone else I can go to." Sherlock frowned once again, a feeling of dread filling him though he didn't know why exactly. Lady Smallwood composed herself with a deep breath.

"It… it's Mycroft."


	46. What to do?

Sherlock froze, eyes wide "What do you mean it's Mycroft?" Lady Smallwood looked up comfortingly "No, no! I don't mean he is in danger or anything well… he is actually but not in the way of guns and murderers. He… I don't know how to explain it and I don't know what's going on I just know something is. Can you tell me what you've noticed about him recently so I am not repeating things you've already said?" John and Sherlock looked at each other, each of them sharing the intense feeling of dread.

"H-he… I…" Sherlock took a deep breath to calm his nerves "L-last time we saw Mycroft we figured out that he has come to have… that he has developed… that…" John placed a hand on Sherlock's back soothingly, rarely having seen the dark haired man so upset but completely understanding. He pulled himself together like he had to as a doctor "We found out Mycroft has bulimia." Lady Smallwood looked shocked but not completely surprised and there was a look in her eyes that said she'd expected this "Yes I guessed something of the sort. Mind I hadn't quite labelled that but he barely ate a thing when we dined together and he spent such a long time…" she shook of the thoughts, as if they were too dark to comprehends

"Is there anything else you can tell us about the situation, Elizabeth?" Sherlock asked, his voice only slightly shaky. "Well, yes." She replied "I have never in my entire time of knowing Mycroft seen him like that! The closest was back when you faked… well yes. Something's definitely horribly wrong and I just feel so blind for not being able to see what. It's awful, Sherlock, Mycroft of all people does not deserve to feel like this. Mycroft! It's just not right. And he… this is just an observation by the way, nothing more, I don't know exactly what's happening but… when I had dinner with him he kept on putting his hand in his pocket so at one point I checked what he was doing and he… well there was a pin and… and then I also saw some red marks over his wrist and… I think Mycroft is self-harming."

John could feel Sherlock's muscles stiffen beneath his hand and he himself felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Lady Smallwood looked over the two young men with a sad look in her eyes. She had never seen them so distraught but she supposed the situation had never been so grave. Sherlock blinked rapidly to keep tears from falling down his face as thoughts and theories and words of self hatred swirled within him "I-I… we said we were going to spend more time with him, John." He whispered in a tearful voice "We were going to look after him, make sure he was okay, make sure he didn't have time to do anything to himself."

John sat on the arm of Sherlock's chair, holding Sherlock in a one-armed embrace "It's okay, Sherlock. He's gonna be okay. He's Mycroft, if anyone can get through this it's him. He just needs our help and we will give it, yeah? Not just you and me. See? Lady Smallwood has noticed something is off. She can't have been the only one. We can do this on our own but that doesn't mean we have to."

Sherlock nodded "Anything else you can tell us about it?" He asked, referring to Lady Smallwood "No… actually maybe. I think I made it worse." She swallowed thickly "I decided it wasn't best for us to continue with our relationship while he was like this but I fear he just took it as rejection." Her voice was steady but from the look inside her eyes both men could see the guilt and concern flooding through the woman. "You did the right thing." John assured in a soothing tone "Mycroft needs to get a grasp on himself a little more at least before worrying about others too."

The three sat in a mildly awkward but thought filled silence as each of them thought over this new development. "If I have no more use here I shall be off. Although… may you please keep me involved at least a little in the actions on this. Mycroft is a dear friend of mine and I am very concerned and if I could help in any way at any point I would be delighted to." Sherlock nodded "Yes of course." He gave the Lady a comforting smile, the uncharacteristic behaviour perhaps a sign of his own inner turmoil. John sighed, looking at his best friend and newly found lover, hoping very strongly that things would look up soon.


	47. What happened that night?

John walked downstairs to the living room, bracing himself for whatever Sherlock, more specifically a very upset and worried Sherlock, had to offer. The sight that met him wasn't fire or guns or body parts he had been expecting but it was still definitely… a sight. "Ah, John, with the world of the living again I see." Sherlock remarked, climbing disregardingly over a couple tables before shifting a string a centimetre to the side. "Wha…? Sherlock what is all this?" John asked, trying to make sense of the mess of things that had left no inch of wall, ceiling or floor uncovered.

Sherlock stopped to look at him with an expression of surprise "Well isn't it obvious?" The soldier just looked patiently at his friend, not having the heart to lose his temper with the man who was clearly in some sort of shock after the previous night. Sherlock rolled his eyes and started explaining "I'm tracing Mycroft's movements over the last few weeks, gathering witnesses and scoping the crime scenes to deduce Mycroft's thoughts. So far I've got his movements here, here and here but there is a empty gap here." He said, pointing to different places on several connected sections of map. John looked at Billy with an incredulous look "It's just like when he was obsessing over that Culverton Smith." Billy sighed.

John nodded and went to sit on his chair "So what're you planning on doing to find out where he was?" John asked, deciding not to point out how ridiculous stalking his brother's movements was. Sherlock sighed "I don't know. Obviously I can revisit the places he was before and after the gap but they're busy scenes and I doubt I'll be able to find everything. But I'm convinced something important happened then! He wasn't alright before but we saw him and he hadn't self harmed and he when he parted with us he looked a bit positive. I know something happened then." Sherlock let out a ragged breath "I just don't know what."

The door opened and a ragged looking man walked in, John looking at him suspiciously. "Alright Dex?" Billy said. "Visitor?" John asked Sherlock who nodded "Dex is just her to deliver me something." At that John's eyebrow narrowed, looking at his friend firmly who in turn rolled his eyes "Relax, John, if I was going to start using again I wouldn't do the transaction right in front of your face." "Oh yeah that makes me feel so much better." John commented dryly, Sherlock smiled devilishly at him.

John watched as this so called 'Dex' sat on the corner of their table, helping himself to the toast Sherlock had refused to eat for breakfast. John was, quite justifiably in his opinion, wary of all Sherlock's homeless network friends.

Dex sat up with a start "Oh not him again!" drawing the attention of all the people in the room. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, looking intently at the man. Dex gestured at the wall " 'im! That bloody insane man who came in'o the park the other day. Beat the shi' out of a bench, he did. Men'al, he is! What'd the bench ever do to 'im? Completely barmy, I tell you, a danger to socie'y, I could have been seriously injured if he noticed me! I tell you I'm lucky to be alive."

Everyone looked over to see what man Dex meant. Sherlock stood up abruptly and pulled the image off the wall "Him?" He asked holding the image up for Dex to see who nodded "Yeah that's the bloke." "What this man?" "Yes." "You're sure?" "Definitely, that's him." "When?" "Er… that night Jen got arrested for punchin them coppers." "Where?" "I told ya, the park." Sherlock nodded, eyes flicking back and forth in the room as he thought intently. Clearly all this that sounded like nonsense to John made perfect sense to Sherlock. "Thanks, Dex, that's all. Keep me updated on the north side about the Hannah Reiland case." Dex nodded and left, after a moments consideration, with the hole plate of half eaten food from Sherlock.

Sherlock spun around a grave look on his face "We've found where Mycroft was."


	48. His name is Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft groaned, his whole body aching. He blinked several times to clear his vision of sleep and was mildly alarmed by the time. It was almost lunch. Mycroft sneered at himself for looking at the world around every time to eat. It was almost midday. Mycroft groaned again, rolling off the bed in an attempt to get his body to obey him and get the hell up.

This was surprising, Mycroft could normally hardly sleep a sturdy half hour without waking with a start and yet this night he had slept the whole way through a healthy sleep length and more. And now he felt even more exhausted than when he'd fallen asleep. Mycroft shook his head at himself, this was a new low of laziness even for him. Good thing he'd stared that diet.

Mycroft pushed himself up to his feet, wincing and recoiling as his hand stung. Ah yes. His hand… he'd burnt it. Despite the aching in the limbs Mycroft smiled with a sense of satisfaction. Now it was time to start the day by not having breakfast but using the treadmill. Mycroft smiled, proud of himself for the first time in ages.

"Ah, Lestrade, just the man I wanted to see." Sherlock remarked as the door swung open. "That was almost… nice." Greg said in a mildly suspicious but mainly amused tone "So what is it? You said it was an emergency, this time I didn't bring the entire bloody NSY. I've learnt that if your life's really at risk you wouldn't message me." Sherlock smirked slightly "Very good, detective inspector, you're deductive skills have moved from non existent to limited it would appear."

If Sherlock noticed the older man wince he may have assumed it was because of the insulting compliment instead of his unfortunate choice of using 'detective inspector' which Greg was all too familiar with from a different Holmes. Thinking of the man made his heart ache and Greg didn't know why.

"So what is it then? I have got actual work to do, my life doesn't revolve around you." Lestrade prompted. Sherlock nodded, deciding now wasn't the time for snappy comebacks, and stood so he could better explain by which he meant run around the room pointing at the mess of tracking and evidence on the walls confusingly and referring to things only he could see with his vivid imagination.

"I need your help in a case presented to me by a client last night. I have traced the man concerned, all his actions, movements, his thoughts to some extent all except for a little gap in which I have reason to believe something happened to him. One of my underground network reported to me filling in part of the gap but the second part of it, judging by the state of the man of interest at that time. Something clearly happened just before that and I need to know what, that's where you come in. I doubt you'll be able to help but you know that side of town better, your favourite pub is in it."

All of this information assaulted Greg and he was left staring and blinking "I'm sorry, what?". Sherlock rolled his eyes in an incredibly exasperated fashion and Greg gestured his arms to keep calm him "Okay, okay so what I got was there's a man who's the centre of a new case. You stalked him but can't tell where he was for a little time and in that little time something important happened. When the important thing happened it was near my pub?" "So you were listening!" Sherlock said, standing up and staring at a map and a photo of a playground and another of a bench. Of what significance these things had Greg had no idea and probably didn't want to find out.

"So does this man have a name? It'd be a lot less confusing using it instead of 'man' or 'person of interest' or whatever else you create." Greg inquired, surprised when Sherlock turned to look at him with a face of indecision, unlabelled feelings raw in his eyes. "Yes, of course." He said after a moment "His name is Mycroft Holmes."

At the single name Greg froze. He felt like acidic ice was rushing through his veins, his heart pounding as puzzle pieces fell together. He looked at the photos on the wall and they all made sense to him now, probably more sense than it made to Sherlock. Greg swallowed, trying to keep his breathing as steady as he could "A-and when was the date of the missing space?" Sherlock frowned, trying to deduce the alarming signs the DI was giving off "The third…" At that Greg couldn't take it anymore "Greg, are you alright?" The concerned voice of John asked but Greg paid him no attention and ran out of the doors as fast as he could.


	49. You're allowed to cry

"It was you outside the pub, wasn't it?" Mycroft jumped with a gasp, the knife he'd been holding clattered to the kitchen floor. Greg walked closer to Mycroft who was now staring at Greg with surprise and alarm "My, tell me," Greg persisted, gently taking Mycroft's trembling wrists and kicking the fallen knife away from them "Was it you outside the pub?" Mycroft looked down and nodded causing yet another piece of Greg's heart to shatter "Sh-" Greg sighed, running a hand over his face.

"H-how did you get in here?" Mycroft asked with a shaking voice. "Is it my fault? W-was…" Greg swallowed "Was this me?" Greg asked, holding Mycroft's arms up, taking note of the cuts and burns. Mycroft stared down at the floor, unable to look into Greg's eyes or down at his arms. He shook even more, his breathing ragged and his heart beating like it was trying to escape from his chest.

Mycroft was painfully aware of the other man's distress, that the marks no one was supposed to see or at least understand were being carefully viewed by the one man he least wanted to see him like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this, no one was supposed to know! Definitely not so soon. Why had the man come? How had he gotten in? What right had he to give Mycroft nothing but silence then suddenly appear in his house uninvited? He knew he couldn't talk about this, not now. He just couldn't. "G-Greg." He gasped out before all his emotions overwhelmed him and, to his horror, he burst into tears.

Greg's eyes widened and he cursed under his breath, wrapping his arms carefully around Mycroft as the other man half collapsed onto him "Hey, it's okay, My. Everything's gonna be okay. Come on." He said guiding the younger man towards the sofa. He sat down on it with Mycroft next to him who's arms had encircled his waist tightly and would not let go.

"Shhshhshh it's okay, love, I'm sorry. For everything. For coming in here like this, for just abandoning you without even an explanation, for not being here for you when you needed me, for…" Greg sighed, holding the trembling form in his arms close to his chest "For trying to run away from feelings that scared me instead of just damn facing them." Mycroft made a sound of confusion but Greg just shook his head, running his fingers through Mycroft's hair "We'll talk later. For now you damn well cry. You're allowed to cry, Mycroft, it's good to cry. I'm here for you, that's all you need to know for now."

Mycroft was too undone to be embarrassed at that moment and was instead incredibly grateful to Greg for everything. He held on tightly to the other man, sobbing desperately into his shoulder. Greg held Mycroft, muttering soft words of reassurance, soothing the distraught man as much as he was able.

Eventually Mycroft's tears subsided, leaving him exhausted, sticky and breathing heavily, clinging onto the detective inspector for dead life. "Hey." Greg murmured softly, running his fingers through Mycroft's hair "You okay?" Mycroft glared at him childishly causing both men to giggle "Yeah, okay, stupid question. You're not okay but I promise you this: you will be." Mycroft gave Greg a tired but earnest smile, too exhausted to be stubborn or isolated.

"I'll make you some tea and toast, cus you definitely need it, and we'll talk." Greg felt Mycroft stiffen and frowned "What? You don't want to talk? Mycroft we need-" Mycroft shook his head "What then? Don't like toast?" Mycroft opened his mouth to talk but all that came out was a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again "'m not hungry." This caused Greg's frown to deepen "Mycroft you're completely exhausted. You're eating whether you know you're hungry or not." Mycroft was about to retort but Greg cut him off "And no that's not up for discussion, mister." Mycroft looked slightly indignant at being treated almost like a child but he could feel something warm in his heart. Something that was setting all his emergency alarms off but he decided to ignore because it felt good, it felt safe.


	50. Questions and answers

Greg watched as Mycroft stared at the small plate of food in front of him with apprehension. "Come on, My, you need to eat something. When was the last time you ate? Last night?" Mycroft looked guiltily away which was odd to him, why would he be guilty about the one thing he'd been doing right? But to avoid any further questions along that line Mycroft started eating like he was told to. Greg observed in deep concern as Mycroft took small nibbles from around the toast, gagging severely and coughing.

He rubbed the taller man's back soothingly "Oh My, what've you done do yourself?" He whispered in a sad voice. Boecause this all truly felt like a tragedy and the thought that Greg himself might have something to do with it made him feel something horrible he couldn't even name.

"Hey, it's okay. Just eat half for now, yeah? Only half, that's all I'll make you eat. Here." He handed Mycroft a glass of water which he gratefully accepted and drank slowly, trying to subside the gagging. After a moments consideration Greg started to eat the other piece of toast he'd told Mycroft he didn't need to eat. There was a clear look of relief on Mycroft's face whether that was from confirmation he didn't have to eat it or the fact he wasn't the only one eating Greg wasn't sure but he was sure he was glad Mycroft looked a little better.

"So." Greg said, slapping his hands down on his thighs. Mycroft had finished eating and now it was time to talk, no matter how much they both felt like running away from this as fast as they could. He'd ran away from his feelings already and the next he'd seen of Mycroft was the man an emotional wreck alone in the dark with a knife. Greg knew this had to be good but he just didn't know what to say. He took a deep breath, something was better than nothing. Start simple. Make this simple but affective.

"Okay I'll ask a question then you. We both answer them before we leave this room even if we don't at the time because we aren't comfortable. I'm done playing these games it'll only end badly. You need someone to know it all and no one else seems to be standing up to the roll but it'd be my honour, my pleasure. You understand?" Greg asked, trying to keep a soft but firm tone and to take the lead instead of crumbling like he felt like doing. Mycroft nodded "I do."

"Good. Okay." Greg took a deep breath. Come on, he had to do this before he lost his courage. "Do you want to start?" Mycroft paused before nodding "How did you get into my house?" Greg half laughed "Oh yeah. Sorry about that I was a bit desperate though. I climbed from the tree in your yard onto the pipes then climbed up from the window sill to the balcony, picked the lock and came down your stairs and into the kitchen."

Mycroft blinked in surprise "You…?" He shook his head "Never mind, your question?" "Why aren't you eating?" Greg asked, hoping he wasn't being too forward "Several reasons. But the main message being I'm fat so I'm dieting." Greg sighed, this was going to be hard "First of all, you can't just say 'several reasons', elaborate. Secondly, you are not fat, Mycroft, you're too skinny. You're not anorexic, thank fuck for that, but you're too skinny, you look ill." Mycroft looked down with a frown "I-I look ill because I eat too much. I'm doing well with the diet, though, I just need to continue…" "No!" Greg said sharply, a hand going to grab Mycroft's arm in desperation causing the younger to jump and look up at him apprehensively.

Greg loosened his grip but kept holding on "Mycroft, you're too skinny and weak to be on a diet right now and something tells me you don't mean a normal one either. When was the last time you ate something?" "I haven't asked a question yet, Gregory!" Mycroft protested, Greg nodding in agreement "Yes, sorry. You haven't finished answering mine yet. Sorry, I won't disrupt you this time. Just answer in full. What'd you mean by 'several reasons'?"

Mycroft took a shaky breath "Nothing important, don't you go making a big deal about every little thing I say. I just… I don't deserve the food. It makes me feel ill the fact that it's being wasted on me. Because others need it more, because I don't deserve it, because… I don't know. And it's also an improvement I can make about myself, it was the easiest to start with. And I feel embarrassed always being the fat one, the greedy one. But that's in my control and I've decided to try change it. Also it… it gives me something to do. A mission, an aim, a purpose."

Greg listened silently, fighting the urge to jump in and contradict the other, to pull him into his arms and never let go, to show him he was there. "Oh Mycroft…" Greg sighed, unable to help himself from pulling the taller man into a tint hug "Don't you ever say you're not worth it. Don't say such horrible things about yourself and don't you believe them. I'm here for you now, Mycroft. I'm sorry it's taken me so long. By no means am I gonna stand by and let you destroy your body like this, I'm going to help you whether you let me or not."


End file.
